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For 


Summer Afternoons. 


By SUSAN COOLIDGE, 

AUTHOR OF “the NEW YEAR’S BARGAIN,” “ WHAT 
KATY DID,” ETC. 



BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 


library of CONGRESS 
Two CoDles Received 

JUN 6 1904 

n CoDyrlffht Entry 

- /C| 0 

CLASS ^ XXo. No. 

5 S ^ 5 vT 

COPY B 



Copyright^ 

By Roberts Brothers. 
1876. 


Cl c '• c «. c t « c 


Cambridge: 

Press of John Wilson Son. 


® 

TSS 


All hush, all fragrance, and all song. 

All forces still, all forces strong. 

Unto the summer day belong. 

Fronting the winter with sweet eyes. 

Which beam forth dauntless prophecies. 
Alike to fair and angry skies ; 

Intent, unhasting, full of balm. 

Her keenest energies are calm. 

Her peaceful strength a praiseful psalm. 

Wrapped in her garment's blossoming flows. 
We catch the electrical repose. 

Which through her being comes and goes : 


The fresher pulse^ the quickened thrill^ 
The heartier patience^ heartier ivill. 

The power to labor and be still. 

Dear friend, whose life serene and wide 
Enfolds so many lives beside. 

Like the all-generous summer-tide ; 

And, knozving the same blest alchemy, 
Which makes of toil a ministry 
To helpful, bright tranquillity, 

Stands, like the summer, fair and white. 
Forceful and peaceful in our sight. 
Giving out fragrances and light, — 

This one poor leaf I leave, and lay 
On your bel(rved path, to say 
All that a leaflet can — or may. 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Lota’s Missionary Field i 

An Easter-Egg 35 

Under the Sea . 52 

Edson’s Mother 71 

Martin 85 

One May Day 105 

The Gibraltars 119 

Meta’s Wedding 143 

Bayberry Brook 164 

A Camp-Meeting Idyl 188 

Blue-Beard 209 

An Aloe Blossom . . . ' 237 

Polly’s Pies 260 

The Little Red 280 

On a Bough 321 




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t 


IN TIME OF SOLSTICE. 


1 . 

I SIT at evening’s scented close, 

In fulness of the summer tide ; 

All dewy fair the lily glows, 

No single petal of the rose 

Has fallen to dim the rose’s pride. 

Sweet airs, sweet harmonies of hues, 
Surround, caress me everywhere, 
The magic of the dusk and dews 
My senses steal, my reason wooes. 
And sings a lullaby to care. 

But vainly do the warm airs sing, 

All vain the roses’ rapturous breath 
A chill blast, as from wintry wing. 
Smites on my heart, and, shuddering, 
I see the beauty changed to death. 

Afar I see it loom and rise, — 

That pitiless and icy shape ; 

It blots the blue, it dims the skies. 
Amid the summer land it cries : 

“ I come, and there is no escape ! ” 


Oh, bitter drop in bloom and sweet ! 

Oh, canker on the smiling day ! 

Have we but climbed the hill to meet 
Thy fronting face, thy eyes of sleet ? 

To hate, yet dare not turn away ? 

11 . 

I sit beneath a leaden sky. 

Amid the piled and drifted snow ; 

My feet are on the graves where lie 
The roses which made haste to die 
So long, so very long ago. 

The sobbing wind is fierce and strong, 

Its cry is like a human wail ; 

But in my heart it sings this song : 

“ Not long, O Lord ! O Lord, not long ! 
Surely thy spring-time shall prevail.” 

Out of the darkness and the cold. 

Out of the wintry depths I lean ; 

And lovingly I clasp and hold 
The promises, and see unrolled 
A vision of the summer green. 

Oh, life in death, sweet plucked from pain 
Oh, distant vision, fair to see ! 

Up the long hill we press and strain, 

We can bear all things and attain, 

If once our faces turn to Thee ! 


FOR SUMMER AFTERNOONS. 


LOTA’S MISSIONARY FIELD. 

Little Lota Page was to be a missionary. 
Everybody said so, — the everybody of her 
little world : her adopted mother, Mrs. Sawyer j 
Uncle Hardman, who controlled the household ; 
the teacher of the school she attended; the 
fathers and mothers of half the girls ; last of all 
Lota herself, who from long iteration of the 
idea had come to receive it as a fiat of Fate, 
from which there was no escaping, and w'hich 
it was sinful even to wish to escape. And yet 
the round, dimpled, sparkling thing was as little 
like the stuff of which missionaries are generally 
made as any thing that can be imagined. 

Missionary work held Lota by a double claim : 
it was a birthright and a vocation ; that is, as 
far as other people can “vocate” for a girl. 
Both parents had died in the service ; one of 
1 


2 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


jungle-fever, the other on his way home to Amer- 
ica with his child. His ocean-grave, her mother’s 
quiet resting-place under the palm-trees, were 
alike unreal and vague to Lota’s mind. She 
could never visit either with flowers and tender 
thoughts as other orphans do ; and of the brief 
two years’ motherhood nothing seemed left but 
the baby nickname with which that mother had 
softened the ugly baptismal “ Charlotte.” 

This poor little keepsake she clung to. Uncle 
Hardman denounced it as an unworthy appen- 
dage to a “ missionary child,” and wanted his 
niece to change it ; but, grieving and sobbing, 
the little girl so stamped her small foot, clenched 
her slight fingers, so vehemently again and again 
protested with floods of tears, “ No ! no ! not 
Charlotte ; Lota ! Lota ! ” that at last they ceased 
to oppose her. Lota she remained, except upon 
occasions of the most gloomy importance ; when 
the detested title reappeared, and, like a Mother 
Cary’s chicken, gave token of the coming of a 
storm. 

“ A missionary’s child,” that was what she 
was : not merely a child in the ordinary sense 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


3 


of the word, a thing to be loved, disciplined, 
taught, prayed for, rejoiced over; but a special 
charge, a thing set apart and presided over by 
a band of grim though angelic guardians, who 
would be quick to remark any shortcomings in 
her training. Rich and lonely, Mrs. Sawyer had 
been desirous years ago to adopt a little girl ; 
and when the ship “ Cato ” arrived from Bombay 
with the orphan-daughter of the Reverend Mr. 
Page on board, and the newspapers made known 
the melancholy particulars of his death and burial 
at sea, she felt this was the very chance she had 
been looking for. Duty and inclination never 
clasped hands more pleasingly. Highly respecta- 
ble and well known to members of the Board, 
she had no difficulty in getting possession of 
the little waif whom no one else appeared to 
claim ; and at three years of age Baby Lota was 
duly established in the nursery prepared for her 
reception in the third story, and adorned with 
framed testimonials of membership in various 
benevolent societies, pictures of missionary ships 
and stations, the graves of Mrs. Judson and 
Henry Martyn, and other appropriate devices. 


4 


LOTA’S MISS/OJVATV FIELD. 


A neat bookcase contained a select library of 
memoirs and records, its top surmounted by a 
model of “ The Morning Star,” and on the chim- 
ney-piece there grinned a couple of huge ebony 
idols of the most portentous ugliness. 

In this home the little one grew and throve. 
Her education was conducted after a severe and 
rigid system, from which all extraneous and 
trifling accomplishments were rigorously pared 
away by the terrible Uncle Hardman, who ruled 
over every part of the household, although not. 
belonging to it. Mrs. Sawyer’s naturally weak 
and indulgent mind was much under his sway, 
and she followed his biddings implicitly. Under 
his supervision Lota was trained to eat the food 
‘‘convenient for her” in a standing position, in 
order that she might learn humility of mind ; the 
luxuriant spirals of her brown curls were kept 
carefully cropped : he even presided in person 
over the shaping of her aprons and frocks to a 
pattern of his own devising, the most wonderful and 
fearful that ever disfigured the person of a child. 
All works of fiction, intimate friends, every thing 
that savored of frivolity and vain amusement. 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 5 

were prohibited ; and from earliest childhood the 
jingle of his heavy watch-chain was to Lota’s ears 
as a knell which rang the defeat of all her small 
plans and wishes. 

But neither plain food, strict routine, nor the 
lectures modelled like old-fashioned discourses, 
with many heads and the most personal of appli- 
cations, with which she was from time to time 
favored, checked or dimmed the sweet luxuriant 
life which bloomed in that grim nursery. Her 
Indian birthplace rather than the New England 
parentage lit the warm glow in Lota’s cheek, gave 
the alternate fire and dew to her wine-brown eyes, 
and waved in the undulating grace of her light 
figure. Full of bright, sudden impulse, quick 
imaginations which no repression could chill, a 
warmth of affection which clung inevitably, as a 
morning-glory, to the nearest support, — she blos- 
somed by the side of her guardians, a light and 
beauty in the house never known before. And 
one day Mrs. Sawyer waked up to the fact that 
here was her charge, almost a woman grown, 
getting prettier every day, and more necessary 
to her comfort ; and yet it was a duty to send 


6 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


her away, to give her up to the vocation for which 
she was destined, and to make the new charm 
of her life a sacrifice to the cause which claimed 
and deserved her. Lota must be a missionary. 

The decision was precipitated by one of those 
small events on which destiny hinges, — the ad- 
vent of M. Duroc “ from Paris,” who announced 

to the inhabitants of B that he would open 

classes for instruction in the polite art of dancing. 

Most of the girls in school were to join. Lota, 
coming home in a glow of hope and anticipation, 
made her innocent request that she might do so 
too. A horrified council of war was at once 
held; all indications of mutiny on the part of 
the poor child were summarily put down by Uncle 
Hardman, who first silenced Lota, and then made 
her cry by insisting that her parents (whom he 
never saw) had uniformly wished her to be a 
missionary, and that dancing was a device of 
Satan to ruin souls. Finally, “ Charlotte ” was per- 
emptorily informed that in two weeks she would 
proceed to the famous seminary at Middlebrook, 
from which so many sainted sisters have gone 
forth to foreign lands. 


LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


7 


The tradition of Lota’s whole life had not been 
without effect. She loved her parents’ memory ; 
she was told that their lot ought to be her choice. 
The sensitive young conscience responded to what 
seemed the call of duty. At sixteen, little Lota 
Page accepted the destiny prepared for her, and 
started for Middlebrook with the avowed pur- 
pose of fitting for a missionary life. 

It was as a dream : the bustle of preparation ; 
the new clothes to which a hurried dressmaker 
imparted an air of cheerful worldliness infinitely 
grievous to Uncle Hardman when he came to 
reflect upon them afterward ; the unwonted ten- 
derness called forth in “ aunt’s ” manner by the 
prospect of separation ; and, as in a dream, she 
found herself driving up to the door of Middle- 
brook Seminary, a guardian on either side, and 
a sudden sinking of the heart within her, the 
like of which she had never experienced before 
in her life. 

It was early dusk. Lights already glimmered 
in the windows of the large building, square and 
bare, with the usual top-heavy cupola and dis- 
proportionate pillars supporting the slight piazza. 


8 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


From within came a jingle of pianos. They were 
admitted, led into a formal parlor, and in another 
minute confronted with Miss Usher, the princi- 
pal of the school. 

Small, slight, plain, with quiet gray eyes, and 
hair whose mingled brown and silver threads were 
quietly banded away from the thin face, there 
was nothing in either voice or aspect to explain 
the remarkable influence this woman had always 
exercised over her pupils. But those small gray 
eyes were full of a latent power j they could flash 
with generous indignation or more generous sym- 
pathy. And the flexible thin lips bore the lines 
of a will whose tempered strength had been tested 
against hundreds of plastic youthful natures, and 
rarely failed in the contest. There was kindness 
in the face ; the voice was soft : but for all that 
Lota, as she looked at Miss Usher, felt herself 
more than ever in the grasp of destiny. 

“ I am glad to see you, my dear child,” was 
her greeting. “ I love all my girls ; but dearest 
of all to me are those who, like you, come with 
the noblest purpose in the world in view. What 
particular field have you in contemplation ? ” 


LOTA’S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


9 


“I — I don’t quite know,” faltered Lota ; but 
Uncle Hardman spared her the trouble of further 
explanation. With a majestic sweep of his hand 
he interposed : — 

“ An object, madam, is indeed the first requi- 
site for successful labor ; but that object need 
not be specific. Charlotte has devoted herself to 
a great cause. We place her in your hands to 
be moulded and made fit for it. As wax in the 
hand of the potter ” (this mixed metaphor seemed 
to give the old gentleman especial pleasure ; he 
repeated it) : “ as wax in the hands of the potter 
she comes to you. Take her ; direct her energies, 
indicate her duty, suggest her path.” 

Miss Usher’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. 
This was what she had wished, but had not 
dared to hope. This young, intelligent being, 
given so utterly over into her keeping, seemed 
a godsend almost too good to be true. 

“Certainly, there is little value in working,” 
she said, “ without being sure of what you are 
working for, especially in this particular work. 
There is a language to be learned ; and a diffi- 
cult one like Hindostanee, Arabic, or Chinese 


10 


LOTA’S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


takes time. If you leave the choice to me, 
I unhesitatingly pronounce for Chinese. The 
Chinese Mission is in need of reenforcement; 
a vast work remains to be done in that great 
empire ; and I am fortunate enough to command 
the services of a competent teacher, the Reverend 
Mr. Garth, who is home on a three years’ fur- 
lough on account of his health.” 

“ Admirable ! my dear madam, admirable ! ” 
responded Uncle Hardman. “Admirable,” more 
gently Mrs. Sawyer. Lota said nothing. 

“ One question more,” went on Miss Usher. 
“ Is Miss Page engaged to be married ? ” 

“ Certainly not, madam ; certainly not. Our 
effort has been to keep her from such things ; and 
I trust the idea has never entered her head ! ” 
“But,” said Miss Usher, with some surprise, 
“you know a young girl cannot go alone to a 
foreign country to teach the gospel ! I asked the 
question merely because some of my pupils come 
to me with their minds already led to a special 
field in connection with a special laborer. For 
the others — the Lord opens the way when the 
right time comes.” 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. II 

“ What can she mean,” thought poor Lota ; 
she dared not ask. A kiss from Mrs. Sawyer, 
a majestic blessing from Mr. Hardman, — they 
are gone, and she is on her way up four long 
flights of stairs, to the room which is to repre- 
sent for two years all her ideas of home. 

It was the home of three other girls as well. 
The beds, bureaus, chairs, pegs for dresses were 
in such close neighborhood that Lota’s mind re- 
verted with sudden respect to the ample corner- 
among-the-tombs at home of which she had 
hitherto been occupant. 

A girl was in the window, sitting with both el- 
bows on the sill in an attitude of the deepest 
dejection. For some time after Miss Usher had 
departed she kept silence, eying Lota furtively 
from time to time, as she moved about, unpacking 
and arranging her possessions. At last she broke 
out suddenly with the question, “Aren’t you home- 
sick ? ” 

“ Homesick? No. I don’t think I am.” 

“ Oh dear,” said the girl, “ I should think you’d 
be. I feel dreadfully. How can you help it?” 

“But how can I help it, if I’m not?” asked 
Lota, laughing. 


12 


LCfTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


“ Dear ! ” said the girl, “ I think you’re real hard- 
hearted j ” and she gave vent to a series of sniffs, 
supposed to embody emotion. 

“ Now, Alice Gibbs, don’t be a goose,” ex- 
claimed <a bright voice at the door. “ The idea 
of going on in that way to Miss Page before she 
has got her bonnet off even. I should think you 
would be ashamed ! It is Miss Page, isn’t it ? ” 
and with a smile the new comer held out a hand. 

“Yes. And you?” 

“ I’m room-mate No. 2, and my name is Hatty 
Russell. This disconsolate young person is Miss 
Alice Gibbs, of Bloomsburg, room-mate No. i ; 
who, I am afraid, hasn’t had the manners to in- 
troduce herself.” 

“ And how about No. 3 ? ” asked Lota, quite at 
her ease again. 

“ Oh ! her name is Gray,” replied room-mate 
No. 2, with a queer twist to her mouth. “Rose 
Gray. She will be your intimate among us, I 
suppose ; but I hope we shall be good friends for 
all that.” 

“ But what makes you suppose so ? ” 

“ Oh ! she’s one of your kind, you know. She 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


13 


is going to Ceylon, and is engaged to James 
Fairbanks, the missionary. He’s had two wives 
already, and is coming home in the spring for 
Rose.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Lota. A shadow seemed to fall 
on her. She remembered Miss Usher’s words. 
It was all a puzzle. 

“ I’ll tell you what,” remarked Miss Russell a 
week later, as she and Lota walked the long 
piazza in recreation-time, their arms about each 
other’s waists ; “ you’re not one bit like what I 
thought you were going to be.” 

“Am I not? how?” 

“Why, you see, we had all heard about you — 
Miss Usher told some of the girls — and how 
you were the child of a missionary, and from your 
cradle had been fetched up for the work ; your 
pap made of old Missionary Heralds boiled to a 
pulp, or something like that. And of course I 
pictured you a meek mouse like Rose Gray, or 
else a grim creature like Miss Paul ; and thought 
your talk would be all about the dimensions of 
the Great Wall of China, or the philosophy of — 
what’s his name? — vou know who I mean, — the 


14 LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


great Chinese philosopher, — and that sort of 
thing.” 

“ Good gracious ! I don’t wonder you were 
frightened. Well ? ” 

“Well, you are just the greatest darling in 
school, with your lovely brown eyes, and all. 
And the idea of your going on a mission to be 
eaten alive is the most burning shame that ever 
was.” And, half crying, Miss Russell showered 
her friend with kisses. 

“Don’t, Hatty, please,” pleaded Lota. “The 
Chinese don’t eat people ; and it is a great thing 
to be able to go and teach them what is good. I 
haven’t any father and mother, you know ; and it 
seems only right that my life should be spent as 
theirs was ; ” and the brown eyes dilated for a 
moment with enthusiasm. 

“ Fiddlestick ! ” pursued the irrepressible Hat- 
tie. “ Somebody else put that idea into your 
head ; it isn’t a bit natural for a young thing like 
you. You may say you like it, if you want to j 
but I shan’t believe you. And there’s one thing 
I know you won’t like, and I wouldn’t put up 
with it myself if I was twenty missionaries ; and 


LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. . 15 


that’s having a young man come here and try me 
on, and decide if I suit his plans, and then marry 
me as a matter of course and convenience. I 
never could stand that ; and as for you, you are 
ten thousand times too pretty and sweet. You 
ought to be fallen in love with and courted like 
other girls. And it’s a burning shame you can’t.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” gasped poor Lota. 

“ Why, don’t you know ? They send the young 
men, who are going to be missionaries, up here to 
find their wives. Oh, it’s such fun ! And yet so 
dreadful ! Then they sit at table, and Miss Usher 
points at this one or that with her fork, and 
describes their qualifications, — hqw they speak 
Coptic, or Persian, or what not. And the poor 
young men color so, and wriggle in their chairs. 
One time it was perfectly awful ! A man came 
who wanted a wife to go to Bengal. And there 
was Miss Tibbitts, who spoke Hindostanee very 
well ; and just because she had red hair and was 
homely as a hedge fence he wouldn’t have her, 
and went away ; and in the end Miss Tibbitts 
married Mr. Smith, who had had four wives be- 
fore, and went to South Africa : so, of course, her 


1 6 LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


Hindostanee wasn’t of the least use in the worla 
Miss Usher was just as mad as could be about it. 
But what on earth is the matter, darling?” for 
Lota had sunk upon a bench, and was giving way 
to a passion of tears. 

“ Oh, I can’t, I never can !” she sobbed. “ Why 
did they never tell me about these dreadful things ? 
I never can sit there and be pointed at with a 
fork ! Oh ! ” And between laughter and crying 
she became half hysterical, while the repentant 
Hatty tried in vain to soothe her. 

The shock was not lasting. Miss Usher had 
the gift of inspiring enthusiasm, and her nature 
was of that rich, strong sort which both com- 
mands and attracts. Fanatically zealous on one 
point, she had the powerful common sense of a 
man and the genuine tenderness of a woman on 
all others. Lota learned to love her dearly, and 
applied herself to study with an energy born of 
the new influence. Without exactly learning to 
“ construe tea-pots,” as Hattie called it, she made 
fair progress in Chinese ; and, as the “ coming 
man ” was no more alluded to, time passed quickly 
and cheerfully. The atmosphere of school was 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


1 / 


far more home-like than that of any home she had 
ever known. Only twice during eighteen months 
did she visit B — , and she returned from each 
visit with a sense of relief and pleasure. 

The bell had just rung for tea one evening, 
when upstairs, two steps at a time, her cheeks 
blazing, her eyes full of angry tears, rushed Hatty 
Russell j and, arresting Lota at the door, dragged 
her back into the room, sank down upon the bed, 
and began to sob and cry as if her heart was 
breaking. 

What’s the matter, darling? what is it? do 
tell me,” importuned Lota ; but for a moment only 
gulps and gasps replied ; then, — 

“ It’s a shame, it’s a shame,” cried the impetu- 
ous girl, springing up and catching her friend by 
the neck ; “ but any way you shan’t go down un- 
prepared. He’s come. Lota ! ” 

“Who?” 

“ Mr. Ware, the missionary who is going to 
Shanghai in August ; the man Miss Usher told 
us about the other day, don’t you remember ? I 
felt it in my bones then ! I declare I did ! and 
2 


l8 LOTA’S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


when I found out who it was in the parlor, I 
thought I should have dropped. The door was 
open, and I listened with all my might as I went 
through the hall, — I defy anyone to help it; and 
Miss Usher was saying, ‘ I am sorry Miss Page 
will not be able to finish her term ; but, as you say, 
there is six months’ voyage to study in,’ — and just 
then somebody shut the door. O Lota ! if you 
go away from me to China, I shall die.” 

The bell rang a second time. “ Hark !” said 
Hatty, “ we must go. Don’t look so pale. Lota, 
dear ; rub your cheeks ; — or no ! do look- pale, 
look as ugly as you can, and perhaps he won’t 
want you ; but, oh dear ! no man with eyes in his 
head could help wanting you, you darling you ! ” 
This last burst was whispered at the very door of 
the dining-room. 

Everybody was seated when they entered, — 
one white and trembling, the other flushed and 
eager. A suppressed excitement could be felt in 
the air : the school had guessed the object of the 
visit ; and every eye, with more or less directness, 
was fixed on the visitor, — all but Lota’s. She 
could not look up ; and a vision of the hand of 


LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 19 


destiny, armed with a fork, came between her and 
the food upon her plate ! As if spell-bound, she sat 
with burning cheeks and ice-cold hands. Little 
twitches came into the points of her fingers. At 
last she felt able to endure it no longer : with 
some wild idea of flight, she raised her eyes ; but 
an astonishing vision at the head of the table ar- 
rested them, and, whereas she had not dared to 
look before, she now could not for her life look 
away. 

Two men were at table, one on either side of 
Miss Usher, — two young men, each apparently 
about twenty-four ; both gray-eyed and light- 
haired, and yet as curiously unlike as June is to 
November, or a funeral psalm to a merry mad- 
rigal. 

From the thin, weary face of one, with its 
drained eyes and pinched, set lips. Lota’s eyes 
turned upon the other. It was a face which sug- 
gested the very fulness and content of life, hearty, 
manly life. Life danced in the wavy brown hair ; 
life brimmed the eyes with sunshine ; but it was 
not careless, unreasoning life. Strength and 
sweetness clasped hands in the expression ; it was 


20 


LOTA'S M/SS/ONARV FIELD. 


a face which a child, a dog, would have turned 
to without hesitation, and which a woman’s in- 
stinct could not be long in reading. With a sud- 
den glow of heart. Lota felt that her future was 
by many degrees less burdensome than she had 
feared, if only — but how much lay folded in 
that “if”? 

Her senses seemed sharpened for the moment. 
From the very end of the long room, amid the 
clatter of fifty forks and spoons, she caught Miss 
Usher’s voice distinctly: “Shall I give you an- 
other cup, Mr. Ware?” 

Oh dear ! how her heart sank ! it was the 
wrong one. One moment later, and the suspense 
was renewed ; for, turning to the other, Miss 
Usher pursued her hospitalities : “ Is yours quite 
agreeable. Dr. Ware ? ” 

Which was it ? Was ever riddle so horribly in- 
teresting before ? Absorbed, her large eyes fixed 
upon the two, Lota had almost forgotten her own 
connection with the scene, when a gesture re- 
called her. Slight and rapid as it was, it sufficed 
to bring both pairs of gray eyes upon her ; one 
with the cool scrutiny which bespoke a deliberate 


LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


21 


object, the other with a sudden glance of compas- 
sion and interest, which like lightning flashed 
conviction upon her soul. She knew her fate ! 
Pale and trembling, she sat almost unconscious, 
till the rustle of a general uprising showed the 
ending of the meal ; and then, dragged upstairs 
by the indignant and sympathizing Hatty, she 
found herself at last free to expend her excite- 
ment in tears. 

Poor Lota! this was the beginning of woes. 
That evening, in private conference, and with 
many congratulations. Miss Usher broke the news 
of her good fortune. “Mr. Ware, my dear, the 
gentleman who drank tea with us, is to sail for 
Shanghai in August. His character and refer- 
ences are unexceptionable ; he has been most 
thoroughly trained ; in fact, I have rarely seen a 
young man who pleased me so much ; his whole 
soul seems in his work. I confess I am sorry to 
have you lose the rest of your course with Dr. 
Garth ; but Mr. Ware knows the language, and 
you will have every opportunity of study during 
the voyage, which is a long one.” 

“But, Miss Usher,” faltered Lota, appalled by 


22 


LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


the finality of her tone, “ I don’t know Mr. Ware. 
Surely you don’t mean that I must go with him, un- 
less when we meet he likes me and I like him ? ” 
“ Oh no, dear child ; of course, of course : but 
you are sure to like him ; graduated at the head 
of his class ! full of energy and right-mindedness ; 
there’ll be no difficulty of that sort. You noticed 
him at tea, did you not ? ” 

“ There were two gentlemen at tea, I think.” 

“ Oh yes ! ” indifferently. “ Mr. Ware brought 
his cousin with him, a young doctor : but no one 
could mistake them ; he looks like a boy. Mr. 
Ware has a fine brow and head. I am sure you 
could not fail to notice him. He will call to- 
morrow for an interview ; and now, dear Char- 
lotte, I want you to go to your room, and take 
this thing into prayerful consideration. Remem- 
ber that all your life has been spent in preparing 
for this work, and that this chance is just what 
your friends wish. You would probably never 
have so good a one again. Think of all this, 
dear Charlotte, and God bless you.” 

In her room that night, after Hatty had sobbed 
herself to sleep, Lota sat alone fighting her battle. 


LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD, 23 


All that Miss Usher said was true ; this was the 
very chance for which she had been educating 
herself. Here was a good man asking her help ; 
all her friends w'ould expect it of her ; and yet 
a voice within cried out importunately, how could 
she, how could she do it ? 

Pale and spent after her sleepless night, she en- 
tered the parlor for the dreaded interview. The 
Ute-a-tete had been so formidable in idea that it 
was a relief to see that Mr. Ware was not alone ; 
his cousin accompanied him. Something in the 
trepidation of the young missionary’s manner sug- 
gested that he too had experienced his qualms of 
apprehension, and had resorted to this means of 
lessening the embarrassment. 

White and drooping. Lota sat on the sofa while 
Mr. Ware detailed his plans : the scheme of his 
teaching, the date of his sailing, his need of a 
helpmate, and, with great awkwardness, his desire 
that the young lady before him should assume 
that position. Something he said of respect and 
attachment; but it sounded formal, and did not 
reassure Lota’s chilled and frightened heart. For- 
mal, too, was her answer, faltered forth with great 


24 LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


difficulty. She thanked him for his proposal ; it 
was her wish to be useful ; she requested time for 
reflection. A fortnight was named ; a day fixed 
on which Mr. Ware should return for his answer. 
Her cold hand was shaken ; — two shakes, very 
different in character. They were gone, and all 
this time Mr. Ware’s cousin had not uttered one 
word : and yet it seemed to Lota as if he had 
talked continually ; so full had his eyes been 
of warning, regret, concern, and something else ; 
something indefinable, the recollection of which 
made her cheeks tingle and heart throb ; and yet 
what was it ? Was it there at all .? 

The two weeks were full of trial. Mrs. Sawyer 
and Uncle Hardman wTote and were written to. 
Miss Usher calmly took things for granted. All 
the girls in school knew that Lota Page was going 
to be married, and accept the Chinese mission. 
One and all treated the matter as fixed and unal- 
terable. 

Conscience, traditional ideas, every tendency 
of her life, fought against her ; and neither help 
nor hope appeared to strengthen the instinct that 
struggled within, and which she feared was sin. 


LOJ'A^S MISSIONARY FIELD. 25 


Poor Hatty, the only ally of this weakness, was 
so worn out with lamentations and objurgations, 
that she was an hourly inconvenience. Exhausted 
by the struggle. Lota at last gave way ; and, when 
the day came on which Mr. Ware was to learn 
her decision, she had resolved to accept the 
verdict of others, and to go. 

The stage was due at ten in the morning. Ex- 
cused from school-duties. Lota wandered into the 
garden, now full of the dewy fragrance and fresh- 
ness of June. The air blew on her hot cheeks 
in soft puffs, bringing smells of hayfields and 
flowers. Seated in the shade on a garden-bench, 
she heard the coach roll up the street, heard the 
gate click, the bell ring, then, escorted by the 
maid, a gentleman issued from the side-door and 
approached her. With a great effort she raised 
her eyes as he drew near ; it was not Mr. Ware, 
but his cousin ! 

“I am come on a singular and embarrassing 
errand,” he said, after pausing a little. “ It is 
best to be frank. Miss Page. My cousin is pre- 
vented from being here to-day by some hindrances 
in the way of business ; and he has asked me to 


26 LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 


receive from you the answer to his proposal of a 
fortnight ago. I feel the impropriety of this — 
and your annoyance. Nothing would have in- 
duced me to accept this commission, except — ” 
he paused again in greater embarrassment than 
ever. 

He looked more distressed and troubled by a 
good deal than Lota felt. So completely business- 
like was their relation to her mind, that it did not 
occur to her to be mortified. It certainly was a 
cool proceeding for a man in love to depute his first 
cousin to get the answer upon which all his hopes 
hung ; but in this case the situation certainly had 
its advantages ! It is not impossible that Mr. 
Ware might have devolved many of the duties of 
a lover upon another without risking any great ire 
on Lota’s part. Set at ease herself by her com- 
panion’s evident discomfiture, she pointed to the 
seat beside her and said gently : “ Please sit down, 
Dr. Ware. It is rather strange, no doubt — ” 

“ It is a great deal more than strange, it is out- 
rageous ; or rather,” softening his tone, “ it would 
be ; but my cousin, poor fellow ! is not so much to 
blame after all. He is dreadfully pressed just 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 2/ 

now ; and somehow his training has taken all the 
life out of him ; he doesn’t seem able to take or 
feel things as other men do. He is an admirable 
fellow for all that,” he went on eagerly ; “ full of 
his work. Nothing else seems to appeal to him in 
the least just now ; and that’s all right, isn’t it. 
Miss Page ? for if it’s a heavy load for a man to 
carry, and takes all his strength, what must it be 
for a young girl like you ? ” 

“Yes, indeed,” sighed Lota, her eyes filling 
with tears ; “ it is very, very heavy.” 

“ But you have decided ? ” 

“Yesj that is, I have let others decide for 
me.” 

“ But,” — the blue-gray eyes looking troubled, — > 
“Miss Page, can you let anybody else decide 
such a thing as this for you ? ” 

“What can I do ? ” raising the long lashes on 
which the tears yet hung. “ All my life has been 
spent in getting ready for a mission. My father 
and mother both were missionaries ; it was always 
intended I should be one. And, indeed,” softly 
and timidly, “it is such a very hard choice to 
make for one’s self that perhaps it is better to 
have it made for you.” 


28 LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


“And feeling so, you will marry my cousin 
Ned, and go to China for your lifetime?’’ 

Something in the tone smote Lota as with 
a shock. Blushing and miserable, she faltered 
out the words : 

“ They all say it is such an excellent chance ; 
they all advise it.” 

“ But what do you say ? Dear Miss Page, may 
I speak plainly to you, as I would to my sister, if 
I had one ? ” 

“ Please, do.” 

“Don’t mistake my meaning,” he said rever- 
ently. “ I would not for the world tempt a soul to 
withdraw from God’s altar a gift laid there right- 
fully and consciously ; but you are very young, 
and the influence of others may have been too 
strong for you. Unless you go into this work 
with your whole heart, it will be too much for 
you. Pray, pray be sure of yourself. Don’t go to 
China or anywhere else, unless you are sure God 
sends you there. And, above all, never marry my 
cousin Ned, nor any man, unless you so love him 
with all your soul and strength that you are cer- 
tain it is happiness to go with him and be with 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 29 


him in any country, and help him in any kind of 
work, or even stay at home,” he added, with, a 
smile. 

This was new doctrine! “You see,” he went 
on, “ you can’t have the least idea what it must be 
for a woman to leave her own country with a 
stranger. All the help which enthusiasm, natural 
bias, and strong affection can give would be 
needed to make the thing successful j without 
these, it would be unendurable.” 

“ Oh,” said Lota, bursting into tears, “ I thank 
you more than I can tell. I felt all this before, 
but nobody helped me ; and I feared it was wrong 
to feel so.” 

“ Wrong ! it was your true womanly instinct, a 
better guide than fifty doctors of divinity. And 
now,” he added, rising, “I must say good-by. 
Here is my cousin’s address ; do not make your 
decision in a hurry ; and whatever it is, my dear 
Miss Page, may God bless you.” 

He was gone, but how changed every thing to 
Lota’s eyes ! The clear manly protest, like a sud- 
den thunder-storm in August, had cleared away 
the vapors and mists which so long had concealed 


30 LOTA'S MISSIONARY FIELD. 

\ 

her inward convictions ; and, as hour after houi 
she sat absorbed in thought, it became more and 
more apparent that she could not marry Mr. 
Ware. This conclusion reached, she sought Miss 
Usher’s room to announce it. 

Dire was the consternation in that hallowed 
sanctum. That so plain a flying in the face of 
Providence had never been known before, was the 
immediate verdict ; and all that argument, entreaty, 
and affectionate remonstrance could do was done 
to change her determination. Mr. Hardman and 
Mrs. Sawyer were appealed to, stormy letters flew 
to and fro ; but the delicate and tenacious thread 
of resolution which ran through Lota’s character 
held firm. Let them say what they might, she 
could not and would not marry Mr. Ware. A 
missionary she was ready to be, but not the wife 
of a man she did not love. 

So the vacation came. Edward Ware had 
found another and more pliable lady, and was on 
the point of sailing. He had experienced but 
little disappointment in Miss Page’s decision ; a 
helpmate was what he desired, and he had not 
set his heart especially on any individual. Uncle 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


31 


Hardman, full of righteous wrath, dictated a letter 
to his niece, in which Lota was informed that her 
weak and unworthy conduct had debarred her 
from the privilege of her usual visit to B — , and 
Miss Usher was requested to secure respectable 
lodg'ngs for her elsewhere. And so the last, red 
sunsets of July and the ripening harvests of Au- 
gust found her the inmate of a quiet farm-house 
among the pine-woods, walking over the spicy 
brown needles which carpeted them, or through 
the scented hayfields ; and finding in her banish- 
ment a contentment and repose which would have 
wrung Uncle Hardman’s heart with despair had 
he been aware of it. 

And these walks were not always lonely. By 
one of those singular coincidences which occur in 
life with young people. Dr. Allan Ware about this 
time found a frequent professional necessity for 
being in the neighborhood. Of course, it was but 
natural that he should call upon Miss Page in her 
retreat ! And so it came to pass that evening 
after evening the wine-brown and the gray eyes 
rested upon the same objects. And to both it 
seemed those objects were beautiful as never be- 


32 LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


fore. Surely sunsets were never so bright, or 
fields so green ; never did moon enfold the earth 
with such silver radiance, or winds pipe such mel- 
odies among the tree-boughs. A golden glamour 
rested on the world. So Lota thought. And one 
evening, as she sat with her sewing under a pine- 
tree, as fair a Dryad as ever graced a grove. Dr. 
Allan appeared, and, sitting down beside her, he 
made a confession which brought the blood to her 
cheek in bright, frightened blushes, and then sent 
it back to her heart, leaving that fair cheek white 
and cold. 

“ I believe I loved you from the first moment, 
Lota ; but I would not know it, for fear of wrong- 
ing poor Ned. But now — ” 

“ O Dr. Ware ! don’t, please don’t ; you know 
I am to be a missionary.” 

“ Yes, dear, so you shall be a missionary in the 
true sense of the word. God has plenty of work 
to do this side the water, and doctors and doctors’ 
wives have about as good a chance to do it — to 
get near the poor and suffering and wicked, and 
help them — as any men and women in the world. 
Say you will be a missionary, dear Lota, with 
me.” 


LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 33 


“ They will all think me so wrong.” 

“ But how if you yourself know you are right ? ” 
“Yes, but then — my Chinese which I’ve been 
studying so long. It wouldn’t be the least use to 
anybody.” 

“Yes, it would, darling,” declared Dr. Allan, 
possessing himself of both little hands ; “ all the 
use in the world. As it happens, the thing I most 
need and most covet on earth is just that, — a wife 
who can speak Chinese ! ” 

The laugh which broke from Lota’s lips at this, 
rang the knell of her foreign mission ! 

It was settled. Uncle Hardman raged, and 
would fain have made Mrs. Sawyer rage with 
him ; but both she and Miss Usher, though they 
took the matter greatly to heart, could not long 
resist the sight of Lota’s happiness. And besides, 
although like the poet they might sing, — 

“ Of all sad words of tongue and pen, 

The saddest are these, ‘it might have been,’ ” 

the correlative by the other poet could hardly fail 
in time to suggest itself, that — 

“ A sadder thing we sometimes see, 

It is, but it hadn’t ought to be ! ” 

3 


34 LOTAHS MISSIONARY FIELD. 


Both of them forgave completely and once for 
all, after they had installed Allan and Lota in their 
home and seen them established in their new life. 
Young, loving, blessed in each other, their chief 
happiness was found in their work, — true mis- 
sionary work, — and in the benedictions it called 
forth from the poor among whom and for whom 
their days were spent. 

Lota found but little use for her “ strange 
tongue.” Now and then, when in one of her im- 
pulsive moments she grows rapid and confused in 
an argument, Allan laughs a saucy laugh and in- 
quires : “ My dear wife, I beg your pardon ; but 
isn’t that Chinese you are talking ? ” 


AN EASTER-EGG. 


Four pairs of noisy boots clattered down the 
entry. Three sets of impatient fingers fumbled 
at once for the door-knob, while another, missing 
its clutch, thumped violently on the panel. A 
quartette of voices, raised to concert pitch, accom- 
panied these movements with a chorus of “ Bully ! 
splendid ! Oh, Nora, Nora, Nora ! ” 

A second more and the door flew open, and in 
poured .an eager little crowd, startling the quiet 
of the nursery with their whoops and shouts. 
But Nora was used to it, and only smiled as they 
flocked around her. 

“ Oh, Nora, what d’you think ? ” 

This was Reggy, the eldest. Jack, his next 
junior, vented his feelings in a series of hops, 
each topped off with the word “ Cricky ! ” as a 
sort of exclamation point. Jonquil, a solemn 


36 


AJV EASTER-EGG. 


girl of six, with excited, red cheeks, stood in the 
middle of the room, too breathless for more than 
an occasional “ Oh ! ” while small May, the 
baby, who had climbed the precipitous back of 
the sewing-chair, and wound a pair of fat arms 
round her nurse’s neck, nearly strangled her 
with a series of well-meant but uncomfortable 
squeezes. 

“ What is it, children ? That is enough. Miss 
May, dear \ come and sit on my lap instead. 
Master Jack, don’t tangle my thread, please ; 
it’s all wound round your legs. Bring your little 
chair. Jonquil; that’s right. Now tell me all 
about it.” 

It was wonderful to see the effect of her voice 
and manner, — both full of that happy mixture of 
firmness and good humor which children are so 
quick to recognize. Jack suspended his skips; 
“ Miss May ” descended from the chair-back. 
Nora was confessedly “ a treasure.” “ The 
Lord knew how much I could bear,” little Mrs. 
Allen was wont to say, piously ; “ so when He 
sent a fourth obstreperous baby to reenforce the 
other three, — He sent Nora at the same time. 


AA^ EASTER-EGG. 


37 


And how I should manage without her I can’t 
tell. She has such influence over the children. 
Why, they are as good as gold with her, and 
they never think of minding a word I say.” 
Which eulogy Mrs. Allen was accustomed to 
deliver with clasped hands, and without a shade 
of self-blame ! And it was a fact, — the small 
fry of the nursery were completely under Nora’s 
dominion. 

She was a pretty girl, this “treasure,” and 
that goes so far with children. Pretty and sad. 
In spite of the ripe bloom of Devonshire on 
cheek and lip, and the round, almost childish 
contour, there was something in the wistful, ear- 
nest face which spoke a deeper experience than 
a child’s. The little elves under her charge 
divined this. “Would you be happy if I loved 
you very hard indeed ? ” May was once heard 
to ask ; but though Nora laughed and kissed 
her, she shook her head slightly as in response 
to some inward thought, and made no reply. 
But all this was between herself and the children. 
No one else in the house interested himself in 
the nurse’s possible sorrows, or even cared to 
speculate as to whether or not she had any. 


38 


AJV EASTER-EGG. 


“I’ll tell you,” began Jonquil, as the unruly 
group subsided into order. “You see to-mor- 
row is egg-day.” 

“ Oh, Jonquil,” interposed scandalized Reggy, 
“ not egg-day. You mean Easter-egg day. They 
always put Easter first.” 

“Do they?” said Jonquil. “Well, Nora, it’s 
Easter-egg day; and mamma says we may boil 
some eggs. We did ’em once before, but not 
last year, because that cook was real cross, and 
said she’d not have us about. But the new Ann 
is very kind, you know, and mamma says she 
guesses it won’t put her out. Put her out where, 
Nora?” 

“Out of temper, your mother meant. Well, 
so you are to have some Easter-eggs ? ” 

“ Yes, six apiece. That makes twenty- two, 
or else twenty-six, I can’t ’member which. .And 
we may boil them in a tin saucepan. And 
they’re to be all colors — all sorts of colors — 
that we can get pieces of, you know.” 

“ Pieces ? ” 

“ To rub off ” — “ To tie up ” — “ To wap 
wound,” began a chorus of explanation ; but 


AN EASTER-EGG. 


39 


Reggy overbore the others. Pieces of calico 
which don’t wash, Nora, and come off on the 
shells when they’re boiled. Jonquil has got some 
already, but we want a great many more. Show 
all you’ve got in your pocket, John.” 

Jonquil produced a small collection of shreds 
and patches from that receptacle. “ Aren’t they 
nice ? ” she said. “ Mamma gave us a pink one 
and a purple one and all that green, and Aunt 
Emma found this one in her trunk, and she says 
the little red spots always corned off in the tub. 
And mamma said if you’d look in the piece-bag 
you’d find lots more just as good, — no, just as 
bad, she said. There’s my blue frock, which is 
most white now, and some of May’s plaid. And, 
Norry dear,” coaxingly — 

V “ Well, darling ? ” 

“ Don’t you think perhaps there are some 
teenty-weenty bits in your box. Once I saw 
inside, you know, when you showed us the 
crooked sixpence. And I think I ’member some 
bits all rolled up. Won’t you look and see, and 
let us see ? ” 

“Yes, dear, and welcome. Would you like 
to come and look now 1 ” 


40 


AA^ EASTER-EGG. 


“Ob yes — now — how jolly! Nora is going 
to open her box,” cried the little ones in chorus, 
as they capered down the long gallery. In the 
quiet country place such an event as a box-open- 
ing was not of every-day occurrence. 

Nora’s room was a pleasant one, bright, sunny, 
and neatly furnished. “ Quite too good for a 
servant,” Mrs. Allen would say ; “ but then May 
sleeps with her, you know ; and really she is a 
very superior sort of girl, — so different from the 
common Irish one gets.” The box, not a large 
one, which held Nora’s little treasures, was in a 
corner. She turned the key, the children stand- 
ing by and peering over the lid with a comical 
mixture of awe and pleasure in their faces. 
There was nothing exciting on the top, only 
Nora’s Sunday dress and shawl, with the aspect 
of which they were quite familiar. Laying these 
aside, — 

“ There’s not much here for you. Miss Jon- 
quil,” she said ; “ all the pieces I’ve got are in 
this little roll, and the prettiest are fast colors, 
I’m afraid. Our English prints mostly are. They 
don’t run like the American ones.” 


AN EASTER-EGG. 


41 


“Won’t this blue one run ? ” inquired Jonquil. 

“ No ; but here’s a pink which will, perhaps ; 
and I don’t know but this purple does.” Nora 
turned over her scraps meditatively. 

“ Oh ! ” screamed May, “ dat’s a pitty one ? 
Oh, Norry, dive me some like dat ! ” 

It was an extremely odd and very pretty 
calico, with large green clover-leaves sprinkled 
over a white surface. Nora held it fast, as if 
reluctant. 

“ Don’t it run? ” persisted Jonquil. 

“ Yes, it did run badly.” Slowly : “ I’ll give 
you a little bit, ‘Miss May, but I don’t want to 
part with much of it. It’s a dress I used to 
think a deal of.” 

“What made you? Is there a story about 
it?” asked Jack, ravenous for stories, and with 
the delightful directness of his age. 

“No, Master Jack, no story; only I used to 
wear that gown in England when I was a lass, 
and happy and at home. I kept a bit just to 
remember those times by, — the times and the 
people.” 

“ What became of the people ? ” persisted Jack. 


42 


AN EASTER-EGG. 


“ Some of them are dead, and some lost.” 

“ Lost ? How ? When ? ” cried three eager 
voices in a breath. 

“ Lost in a great land, where there’s no find- 
ing or following a person,” responded Nora, bit- 
terly. “But never mind that, dears. We’ll not 
talk any more about people. And, May and 
Jonquil, you shall each have a bit of my clover 
calico, since you like it so much, and the boys 
shall have the purple and the pink. We’ll go 
back to the nursery and get a pair of scissors.” 

But the children demurred. They wanted to 
see all the things in the box first. So Nora pa- 
tiently gratified them. The crooked sixpence 
was displayed, a shell pincushion, some bits of 
mineral, a small box of dark wood neatly turned 
and polished, a silhouette of somebody. The 
show lasted half an hour ; then the audience 
adjourned en masse; and in the excitement of 
sewing eggs up in cotton rags the conversation 
and the box seemed alike forgotten. 

The eggs “came out beautiful,” according to 
the cook. Purple, crimson, streaked, and pied, 
they were arranged in their nests of green moss, 


AN EASTER-EGG, 


43 


and formed the principal event of the festival to 
the children. Pre-eminent among the rest shone 
the “ clover calico,” which had “ run ” to admira> 
tion, each distinct leaf being printed on the 
snowy shell as if painted by an artist. 

While this was going on within the house, a 
young man, a stranger, was hard at work with- 
out in a distant part of the grounds. He was a 
new hand, sent over by the village carpenter to 
make some alterations in the stables. All day 
Saturday and Monday he hammered and planed 
busily and alone. It was not till Tuesday that 
the children found him out, — the discoverer being 
Jonquil, who was a born explorer, with a strong 
taste for new acquaintances. 

In half an hour she had made friends, and 
possessed herself of the main facts in the stran- 
ger’s history. His name was James. He was 
English. He was going to stay a good while in 
Barnet. He didn’t know if he shouldn’t stay 
always. He liked little girls. Would he lend 
her one of his little gimlets, then, and let her 
bore .? Yes, he would. This blissful indulgence 
opened her heart. She became generous in her 


44 


AJV EASTER-EGG. 


turn. Did he like eggs ? — eggs with calico on 
the outside? 

James wasn’t sure. He never saw any. 

“ Didn’t you ? Why, how funny ! Don’t you 
ever go to church ? ” (Church and eggs were now 
inseparably connected in Jonquil’s mind.) “I’ll 
run in and get mine to show you, — mine and 
May’s, too. And,” generously, “ I’ll give you 
one. Any one you like, — except my green. 
That’s the prettiest of all, you see. So I must 
keep it.” 

Off she ran. In a few minutes a great noise 
became audible, drawing nearer. Jonquil had 
imparted her discovery, and the quartette, in 
full cry, was bearing down upon the stable. 
Each of the little girls carried a basket, in which 
reposed the nest full of precious eggs. 

He was a nice young fellow, this James; there 
w^as no doubt about it. How he managed to 
rescue his plane from Reggy, and to prevent 
Jack from hammering his fingers as well as the 
nails, was a mystery; but he did it, and with- 
out any loss of his rapid popularity, or the use 
of a sharp word. Baby May was a case of love 


AN EASTER-EGG. 


45 


at first sight. In five minutes she had her arms 
clasped round one of his legs. “ Zoo shall have 
two of my eggs,” she said. Nothing would serve 
but that he should stop work at once and choose. 
Jonquil kept a couple covered carefully in her 
hand. 

“ The pink is a nice one,” she remarked, sug 
gestively. 

Of course the pink was chosen, and a sedate 
lilac specimen from May’s basket, after which 
happy settlement Jonquil revealed her hidden 
treasures. “You see I was afraid you’d want 
them,” she exclaimed, “ so I kept them hid. Ain’t 
they pretty ? ” 

James didn’t answer for a minute. He was 
looking strangely hard at the eggs. 

“ They make me think — ” he began ; then re- 
covering himself — “Yes, they are pretty, miss. 
I never saw exactly that pattern but once before, 
and that was far from here.” 

“ It’s English ! ” vouchsafed Jack. “ Nora had 
it once foi: a gown ; but all the people she used 
to know got lost, so now she doesn’t wear it any 
more.” 


46 


AJV EASTER-EGG. 


“ Nora ! ” The tone was startling. 

“ She our nursey,” lisped May. “ She’s from 
England, you know. We love her lots, me and 
Jonquil do ; but she says she can’t be happy 
’cause all her folks is lost.” 

The young carpenter sat down suddenly. He 
was very pale. 

“What’s the matter?” said Jonquil. “Are 
you tired of hammering? I’d never get tired, I 
know. Oh, Reggy, he’s going to sleep ! How 
queer he looks ! ” 

May began to cry. 

“Run for Nora!” screamed Reggy. “She’ll 
give him something. Tell her to hurry.” 

Off flew Jack. In five minutes he was back, 
panting and out of breath, with Nora at his 
heels. 

“What is it, dears?” she cried. “One of you 
sick ? Oh, my God I ” 

James had risen to his feet. The dull paleness 
of his cheeks changed to a deep, burning flush. 
His eyes blazed. “ Nora ! ” he said, in a deep, 
rapturous tone. 

Next moment they were clasped in each other’s 


arms. 


AJV EASTER-EGG. 


47 


Poor Mrs. Allen ! Her utter bewilderment, 
ten minutes later, when the spectators of this 
wonderful tableau rushed in pell-mell with the 
news, was indescribable. “ He ran,” and “ she 
ran,” and “they both jumped;” “and Nora said 
a swear word, mamma ! ” and “ he kissed ! ” “ she 
kissed ! ” “ they kissed.” Good gracious ! What 
did it all mean ? How was her staid, perfectly 
conducted Nora involved in this distracted nar- 
rative about carpenters and kissing? 

“ Who kissed ? ” cried Mrs. Allen. 

“Why, Nora!” 

Explanation followed a little later. Even Mrs. 
Allen, in the midst of her. terror at the idea of los- 
ing Nora, could not resist giving true womanly 
sympathy to the simple little story. The two 
lovers had missed each other in the strange new 
world which ingulfed them on landing from the 
emigrant ship. James came first to find work and 
make a home, and wandering out to the West 
missed the letters which told of the death of 
Nora’s old mother, and her intention of imme- 
diately following him. No clew to his where- 
abouts could she find on arriving : no answer to 


48 


AJV EASTER-EGG. 


the anxious inquiries sent home by him. For 
three years they had watched and waited, their 
only hope to save money enough to return to 
England, and there take up the end of the broken 
thread which united them. A few weeks more, 
and James would have sailed. Only chance and 
the prattle of a little child had brought them 
together. 

It was some time yet before he was ready 
to claim his bride, and meanwhile good Nora 
diligently occupied herself with training a succes- 
sor. She and James have a little home now, half- 
way between the Allens’ place and the village, 
and no greater treat can be given to any of the 
Allen children than permission to go to Nora’s 
cottage to drink tea or spend the day. 

“And no one should be more welcome,” James 
declares to his wife ; “ for it was their blessed 
fingers that brought us together. I was clean 
discouraged, Nora, and hope was leaving me ; 
when they, pretty dears, fetched those eggs, and 
I saw the pattern of the very gown you wore 
when I courted you. And then they began 
to talk of Nora. Ah, my lass, that’s a minute 


AN EASTER-EGG. 


49 


I sha’n’t forget. 'And poor as we may be, we’ll 
never be too poor as long as we live, I hope, 
to keep Easter with an Easter-egg; if it’s only 
in memory of the good day that gave us to each 
other again.” 


IN THE MIST. 


Sitting all day in a silver mist, 

In silver silence all the day, 

Save for the low, soft hiss of spray 
And the lisp of sands by waters kissed, 

As the tide draws up the bay. 

Little I hear and nothing I see. 

Wrapped in that veil by fairies spun ; 
The solid earth is vanished for me. 

And the shining hours speed noiselessly 
A woof of shadow and sun. 

Suddenly out of the shifting veil 

A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit. 
Flits like a dream — or seems to flit — 
With a golden prow and a gossamer sail, 
And the waves make room for it. 

A fair swift bark from some radiant realm, 
Its diamond cordage cuts the sky 
In glittering lines, all silently 
A seeming spirit holds the helm 
And steers : will he pass me by ? 


IN THE MIST. 


51 


Ah, not for me is the vessel here ! 

Noiseless and fast as a sea-bird’s flight 
She swerves and vanishes from my sight ; 

No flap of sail, no parting cheer, — 

She has passed into the light. 

Sitting some day in a deeper mist, 

Silent, alone, some other day. 

An unknown bark from an unknown bay, 

By unknown waters lapped and kissed, 

Shall near me through the spray. 

No flap of sail, no scraping of keel. 

Shadowy, dim, with a banner dark. 

It will hover, will pause, and I shall feel 
A hand which grasps me, and, shivering steal 
To the cold strand and embark ; — 

Embark for that far, mysterious realm 

Whence the fathomless, trackless waters flow, 
Shall I feel a Presence dim, and know 
Thy hand, dear Lord, upon the helm. 

Nor be afraid to go .? 

And through black waves and stormy blast 
And out of the fog wreaths dense and dun. 
Guided by Thee, shall the vessel run. 

Gain the fair haven, night being past. 

And anchor in the sun ? 


UNDER THE SEA. 


They were scrambling down the rocks, a gay, 
chattering procession, — pretty Kate with her cap- 
tain ; Dr. Gray supporting his invalid wife ; Helen, 
Isabel, Tom, and their midshipman cousin ; last 
of all, Esther Vane — alone. It seemed to her 
morbid fancy right that it should be so. Hence- 
forward she must be alone — always. 

The little guide trotted on in advance, — his 
round, ten-year-old face wearing the vacant look 
so strangely common to that part of the Maine 
coast, with its glorious scenery. There the ocean 
is considered simply a vast depot of herrings 
and “ porgy-'oil,” and the mountains as untoward 
obstacles in the way of a primitive husbandry. 
“ Blast ’em, I wish they was flat,” the natives say, 
as their ploughs encounter the boulders at the 
base j and, if they look aloft at all, it is to calcu- 


UNDER THE SEA. 


53 


late the perches of “ medder land ” which might 
be made to occupy the same area, if the heights 
were out of the way. 

Our party felt on the eve of great things. Hav- 
ing ariived only the day before, Mount Newport 
with its wonderful reach of sapphire sea, the 
bluffs, the lakes in their settings of dark-blue hill, 
were still to them the images of things not seen. 
This, their first excursion, they had dedicated 
to the “ Grotto,” or “ Devil’s Oven,” as the 
coast people term it ; a sort of submarine cave, 
unveiled and accessible at low tide only, and 
a great wonder in its way. 

The path grew steeper. Carefully they followed 
its windings, step by step, sure-footed Kate ac- 
cepting the help she didn’t need, for that pleasure 
in being guided and watched. And now the little 
guide pauses, and with a freckled forefinger points 
round a projection of rock. All crowd to tlie 
spot. Ah! there it is! — the cave of the mer- 
maids ! A shriek of mingled surprise and en- 
chantment burst from the party at the sight. 

Beneath the low-browed arch the rocky floor 
rose, terrace after terrace, till in its highest recess 


54 


UNDER THE SEA. 


it met the roof above. A floor for the nereids 
to dance upon \ a floor of pink coralline, gleaming 
here and there through pools of emerald water 
left by the retreating tide. And each of these tiny 
lakelets seemed brimming with flowers — the flow- 
ers of ocean — green whorls, like chestnut-burs ; 
anemones with their dahlia bloom; brown and 
rosy mosses among whose tendrils bright fish 
darted and played, and snails of vivid orange 
clustered ; broad leaves of brilliant dye swaying 
and undulating with the motion of the pool, — 
minute specks of life flashing every iridescent 
hue ; earthly garden was never so gorgeous. The 
rocky shelves were dimpled with hollows, — softly, 
exquisitely curved. No fancy of the old classic 
days seemed too fantastic or too fair for the spot. 
The imagination instinctively kindled into pict- 
ures, and saw the sea-nymphs sporting in the 
foam ; bold tritons winding their shells ; mer- 
maids playing at hide-and-seek ; nixies and mock- 
ing watersprites peeping from the basins, — all 
dream-land and wonder-land opening, and the 
common earth put aside and far away. 

With cries of delight the party made their way 


UNDER THE SEA. 


55 


down, and scattered through the cave. There 
was room for an army. It was hard to realize 
that with the returning tide the space must fill, 
the gateway close, and leave no resting-place for 
human foot. 

“You said the tide was going down, didn’t you, 
little boy ? ” 

“Ye-ah.” 

“ You’re sure ^ ” 

“Ye-ah.” 

“That’s nice,” cried Isabel. “Then we can 
stay as long as we like. Oh ! do somebody come 
here and see this.” 

She was lying with her face almost touching 
the anemones. Nobody responded to her call, — • 
each had found some other point of interest. Tom 
had fished up a sea-urchin and was exhibiting it. 
Kate and the captain, in a niche of their own, at 
safe whispering distance, were absorbed in each 
other. Esther had climbed to the topmost ledge, 
and was sitting there alone. For the first time 
in six weary months a sensation of pleasure had 
come to her, and she was conscious of but one 
longing, — that they would all go away and leave 


UNDER THE SEA. 


56 

her to realize it. With some vague hope she got 
out color-box and portfolio, and began to sketch. 
Sketching she had discovered kept people off, 
and furnished an excuse for silence. 

And so an hour or more passed by. She heard, 
as in a dream, the chatter of the others, their 
questions to the little guide, his short, jerky re- 
plies. The pools were all explored ; the urchins 
and anemones had been tickled with parasols, and 
made to shut and open and shut again ; the young 
people began to sigh for further worlds to conquer, 
and Mrs. Gray to consider it very damp. 

“ Little boy, isn’t there something else near by 
which we should like to see ? ” 

“ Guess so.” 

“Well, what is it? Tell us, please.” 

“ There’s the ‘ Heads,’ I guess.” 

“ Oh ! how far off is that ? A mile, did you say ? 
That’s not far. Papa, the boy says there’s a place 
called the ‘ Heads,’ only a mile away, and we want 
to go and see it. Can’t we go ? You know the 
way, don’t you, little boy ? ” 

“Ye-ah.” 

“ I think this place is very damp,” sighed Mrs. 


UNDER THE SEA. 


57 


Gray. “ I should really be glad to go somewhere 
and feel the sunshine again. I begin to have 
creeping chills. Suppose we let the boy show us 
the way to this other place, father.” 

“Very well. Get your things together, girls. 
Come, Esther, we’re going.” 

Esther roused herself as from a dream. “O 
Mr. Gray ! must I go ? I’m in the middle of a 
sketch, you see. Couldn’t you leave me here 
quietly, and pick me up as you come back? I 
should like it so much.” 

“ Well — I don’t know. The tide is going out, 
the boy says ; there won’t be any trouble of that 
kind. Are you sure you won’t be chilled or 
lonely?” 

“ Oh ! quite sure.” 

“ Promise me that if you are, you will go to the 
cottage at the bend and warm yourself, or sit on 
the rocks in the sun. We’ll look for you in one 
place or the other. Good-by, my dear.” 

“Good-by, sir.” 

“And, O Esther! you must have some lunch. 
You’ll be starved before we come back,” cried 
careful Helen. 


S8 


UNDER THE SEA. 


So she and Tom and a basket made their way 
upward, and a deposit of sandwiches and port- 
wine was left in a convenient crevice within reach. 

“Good-by, dear. I hope the sketch will be 
lovely.” And they were gone — up the cliff-side 
— Mrs. Gray last, leaning upon her husband’s 
arm. 

“Poor child,” she said, “it makes my heart 
ache to see her Idok so sad. Didn’t you notice 
how she was longing to have us go, and leave 
her alone ? ” 

“ And the very worst thing for her. She needs 
rousing, and all this morbid thinking does her 
harm.” 

The voices died away. Esther caught the words, 
and she smiled at them, — a bitter little smile. 
That was what all of them had said since her 
trouble came. She must be roused — amused — 
and they had crowded business and pleasure upon 
her until she sometimes felt that she could bear it 
no longer. This was the first time in many weeks 
that she had felt really free, — free to be silent, to 
look sad, to cry if she wished. What a luxury it 
was ! No anxious-eyed mother to watch her — 


UNDER THE SEA. 


59 


these comparative strangers withdrawn — this cool, 
darkling silence — it was delicious! There was 
something in the very nature of her trial which 
made it necessary to veil her grief with reserve. 
A black dress she might wear — Paul was a 
cousin, and some show of mourning is allowed 
for second oousinhood even, and for intimate 
friendship such as theirs had been. But no one 
knew of the unavowed engagement which bound 
them since that hurried farewell letter in which his 
love found utterance, and which only reached her 
after he sailed, — the sailing from which there was 
to be no return. No one knew, as they talked 
compassionately of her having had a “dreadful 
shock, poor girl, — her own cousin, you know, and 
such a fine young fellow,” — that her heart was 
wearing widow’s weeds, and mourning its dead as 
the great loss of life. It wouldn’t bear talking 
about, so she kept silence, and tried to wear a 
brave face. 

At first there had been a little hope as rumors 
came of one boat-load escaping from the midnight 
collision ; but that was over now, and the terrible 
suspense of hope was over, and every thing had 


6o 


UNDER THE SEA. 


faded into a sort of gray acceptance of sorrow. 
The light had gone out. 

Left alone, she found with some surprise that 
she didn’t want to cry. All the morning she had 
felt that to creep away somewhere and weep and 
weep her heart out, would be so good ; but tears 
are contrary things. She sat there dulled into 
a calm that was almost like content. She was 
thinking of the time when Paul had visited the 
island and climbed about that very cave. On the 
very rock-shelf where she sat he might perhaps 
have rested. She liked to think so. It brought 
him nearer. 

A little later, she put her sketch away and crept 
down to a broad ledge, where, through the arch, 
the exquisite sky-line was visible. The surf tum- 
bled, and chimed like distant bells. She lay as if 
fascinated, her eyes fixed upon the shining horizon. 
Somewhere far beyond it was the spot where the 
good ship which held her all went down. Down 
where ? Her imagination ran riot. Cleaving the 
liquid depths to the inmost sanctuary of ocean, 
she saw the golden sands, the shadowy green light 
percolating through miles of water, — the everlast- 


UNDER THE SEA. 


6l 


ing repose which reigned there beyond the reach 
of storm, wind, or hurricane. She tried to fix the 
wandering images, and to think of it as a haven 
no less tranquil than the quiet mounds under 
which are pillowed beloved heads on earth. But 
it would not stay. Thoughts of tempest and fury, 
of chill piping winds whipping the foam from the 
waves, of roar and tumult, and a heaving wilder- 
ness of dark waters, came over her, and through 
all the refrain of Jean Ingelow’s pathetic strain 
mixed and blended : — 

“ And I shall see thee no more, no more, 

Till the sea gives up its dead.” 

Great drops forced themselves beneath the 
closed eyelids, and she sobbed : “ O Paul, Paul ! 
how can I bear it ? 

And then she thought, as she had thought 
before, how glad she should be to die ! Life 
didn’t seem desirable any longer, and it would 
be blessed to be with Paul, even at the bottom 
of the ocean. And, thinking thus, the long eye- 
lashes drooped more and more heavily, — peace 
fell upon the brow and lips : she was asleep, — 
asleep, and dreaming a sweet joyful dream. 


62 


UNDER THE SEA. 


How long she slept she never knew. She 
awoke with a sensation of intense cold. The 
spell of slumber was so strong upon her that 
for a moment she did not realize what had taken 
place. The cave was half full of water. Her 
feet and the hem of her dress were already wet, 
and the roar of the waves beneath the hardly 
distinguishable archway told that the tide had 
surprised another victim, and already the avenue 
of escape was barred. 

Was this the answer to some unspoken prayer ? 

The thought flashed over her. Had she really 
prayed for death ? Here it was, close at hand, 
and she was conscious of no gladness, — only 
an intense instinctive desire for life. It was too 
dreadful to be drowned in that hole, and washed 
away like a weed. Life was worth living, after 
all. 

Had somebody said, or was she dreaming, 
that a portion of the cave was left uncovered 
by the water? She could not remember, but 
now she searched about for some indication. 
Ah ! surely, this was one : a cork, a scrap of 
paper, lodged on the highest shelf, — fragile 


UNDER THE SEA. 


63 


things which a tide must inevitably have washed 
away. With that instinct of property which 
survives shipwreck and fire, she collected her 
drawing materials and other little belongings, 
and retreating with them to this possible place 
of refuge, wrapped her cloak about her, and 
with folded hands sat down to await her fate. 

The cave was full of pale green light. It was 
beautiful to see, as the advancing flow rose ledge 
over ledge and flooded the fairy pools, how each 
star-flower and sea-urchin, each crimson and gold- 
en weed, trembled and quivered as with delight 
at its refreshing touch. Each anemone threw 
wide its petals and expanded into full blossom 
to meet the spray baptism. No mortal eye ever 
looked upon sight more charming j but its beauty 
was lost to the shivering and terrified girl. 

The doorway had quite disappeared. Sharp 
spray dashed against her dress. The drops struck 
her face. She shrank, and clung more tightly to 
the rock. A prayer rose to her lips ; and through 
the tremulous light of the submerged archway 
a strange shadow began to go and come, to 
move and pause, and move again. Was it fish. 


64 


UNDER THE SEA. 


or weed, or some mysterious presence ? Did it 
come accompanied by life or death ? 

Meantime upon the rocks above a distracted 
group were collected. The party had come 
gayly back from the “ Heads.” Dr. Gray, igno- 
rant landsman as he was, had grown uneasy 
and hurried them away. Arrived at the “ Grotto,” 
the full extent of the calamity was at once evi- 
dent. The boy had mistaken the tide — flow 
for ebb — and the only hope left was that Esther, 
discovering her danger in time, had taken refuge 
at the cottage near by. Thither they flew to 
search ; but, as we know, in vain. 

The sobbing girls hung distractedly over the 
cliff, listening to the hollow boom with which 
the waves swung into the cavern beneath, — 
sickening to think of the awful something which 
might any moment wash outward on the return- 
ing billow. The gentlemen went for assistance, 
and brought a couple of stout fishermen to the 
spot. But what could anybody do ? 

“ If the young woman has sense enough to 
climb up the right-hand corner and set still, it 
won’t hurt her none perhaps,” one of them said. 
“Not more nor two tides a year gets up there.” 


UNDER THE SEA. 


65 


Ah ! if Esther could only be told that ! They 
could but trust powerlessly to her steadiness of 
nerve and common-sense. 

“ She’s such a wise thing,” Helen sobbed out. 
So they waited. 

A rattle of wheels came from the road. They 
all turned to look, and some one said : “ Per- 

haps it’s a doctor ! ” Though what earthly use 
a doctor could have been would be hard to say ! 

A figure was coming rapidly up the path, — 
a young man. Nobody recognized him, till Dr. 
Gray started forward with the face of one who 
sees a ghost. 

“ Paul ! Good God ! Is it possible ? ” 

“Yes, Doctor,” with a hasty hand-shake. “No 
other. I don’t wonder you stare.” 

“ But, in heaven’s name, how has it come 
about ? Where have you been since we gave 
you up for lost ? ” 

“It’s a long story. You shall hear it some 
day. But ” — rapidly — “ forgive my impatience, 
— where is my cousin ? What is the matter ? ” 

There was a dead silence. At last, with a 
groan. Dr. Gray spoke : — 

5 


66 


UNDER THE SEA. 


“Paul, my poor fellow, how can I tell youl 
Esther is below there.” 

“In the ‘ Grotto ” 

“ In the ‘ Grotto.’ Can any thing be done ? ” 

The young man staggered. The glow faded 
from his face, leaving him ashy pale. For a 
moment he stood irresolute, then he roused him- 
self, and his voice though husky was firm : — 

“ It’s a frightful place ; still there is no abso- 
lute danger if she keeps her presence of mind. 
I stayed there over a tide myself once, just to 
see it. Is your boat at home ? ” to one of the 
fishermen. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Fetch it round then as quickly as possible.” 
Then to Dr. Gray : “ I shall row out there op- 
posite the entrance, and make a dive for it. If 
I come up inside, it’s all right, and I’ll see that 
no harm happens to Esther till the water falls, 
and we can get her out.” 

“ But — the risk ! ” 

“ There is the risk of striking the arch as I 
rise, — that is all. I’m a good swimmer. Doctor, 
as you know. I think it can be done. You 


UNDER THE SEA. 


67 


can guess,” with a sort of pale smile, “how I 
have been counting on this meeting ; and to leave 
her alone and frightened, and not go to her, is 
just impossible. I shall manage it — never fear.” 

The boat came. They saw it rowed out, — Paul 
taking the bearings carefully, shifting position 
once, and yet again, before satisfied. Then he 
looked up with bright, confident eyes and a nod, 
and clasped his hands above his head. A splash, 
— he was gone, and the water closed over him. 

Within the cave, Esther watched the strange, 
moving phantom which darkened the entrance. 
The splash reached without startling her, but 
in another second a flashing object whirled down 
and inward, and, rising, the waves revealed a 
face, — a white face with wet hair. In the pale, 
unearthly glow, it wore the aspect of death. It 
drew nearer : she covered her eyes with her hands. 
Was the sea giving up its dead, that here, in 
this fearful solitude, the vision of her drowned 
Paul confronted her, — or was she going mad? 

Another second, and the hands were with- 
drawn. The peril, the excitement of the past 
hour, the strangeness and unreality of the spot, 


68 


UNDER THE SEA. 


combined to kindle within her an unnatural 
exaltation of feeling. Had she not craved this ? 
If they met as spirits in this land of spirits, was 
she to be afraid of Paul or shrink from him? No, 
a thousand times no ! 

The face was close upon her. With rapid 
strokes, it drew near — a form emerged — it was 
upon the rocks. With a shriek, she held out her 
arms. Cold hands clasped hers, — a voice (did 
dead men speak .?) cried : “ Queenie, Queenie ! ” 

The old pet name ! It was Paul’s ghost, but 
none the less Paul. “ I know you are dead,” 
she said, “ but I am not afraid of you,” and felt, 
unterrified, a strong arm enfold her. But the 
breast upon which her cheek rested was throb- 
bing with such living pulsations that, half aroused, 
she began to shudder in a terrible blended hope 
and fear, and she shrank away from his touch. 

“ O Paul ! are we both dead, or only you ? 
Is tnis the other world ? ” 

“Why, darling,” gently seating her on the 
rock, “you are in a dream. Wake up, love. 
Look at me, Esther. I am not a dead man, but 
your living Paul. Feel my hand, — it is warm. 


UNDER THE SEA. 


69 


you see. God has restored us to one another ; 
and now, if His mercy permits, we will never 
be parted again.” 

“ Paul ! Paul ! ” cried Esther, convinced at last. 

They were very happy. Prosy folk, could they 
have looked in, would have seen only two ex- 
ceedingly wet young persons seated high up on 
a rocky ledge, with receding waters rippling 
about their feet ; but they, all aglow with life 
and happiness, scarcely knew of the lapse of 
time before the shimmering line of light appeared 
at the mouth of the cave. 

With blessed tears streaming down her cheeks, 
Esther heard his story ; how, picked up — the 
sole survivor of that dreadful wreck — by an 
India-bound trader, her lover had lain deliri- 
ous for many weeks in a far land, unable to tell 
his name or story ; and, in part recovered, started 
at once for home, and landed in advance of the 
letters which told his safety. And so they had 
met here, ’mid “coral and tangle and almon- 
dine ; ” and, as she heard the history of his perils, 
Esther clasped the hand she held as if she never 
again could let it go. 


70 


UNDER THE SEA. 


That provident little Helen — bless her heart ! 
— “ builded better than she knew,” in providing 
such a store of damp sandwiches and refreshing 
wine for those drenched and happy lovers. And 
when at last the receding tide opened again the 
rocky gate and the vista of the sea tinged with 
rosy sunset, and Esther, aided by strong arms, 
left her prison, it was with a glow like the 
sunset upon her cheeks, and in her eyes such a 
radiance of happiness that it fairly dazzled the 
forlorn, bedraggled group above. Mrs. Gray 
embraced her fondly, and fell incontinently into 
a fit of long-deferred hysterics. The boys exe- 
cuted a war-dance of congratulation, and Helen 
and Isabel laughed and cried for joy. And as 
Esther turned with Paul for a last look at the 
scene of her deliverance, the chime and murmur 
of the sea seemed full of blessing, — the blessing 
of the dear Lord who had had compassion upon 
her weakness, restoring her to life, and to that 
life its lost joy. With thankful heart, she went 
her way. 

So we leave her. 




EDSON’S MOTHER. 


We were deep in our diet-lists and the dis- 
entanglement of those dark and mysterious 
phonetics which seem the special province of 
wardmasters and hospital stewards, when a tap 
fell upon the door. 

“ Come in,” ejaculated H., with a resigned 
voice. “ My dear, if I should be found dead 
in my bed to-morrow, carve upon my tomb the 
words, ‘ Milk-porridge ’ — I have just come across 
a thirteenth way of spelling it.” 

“ If you please, mum,” said the little orderly, 
respectfully waiting for the end of the sentence, 
“Edson’s mother has came.” 

“ Has she, indeed, poor soul ? Where have 
you put her, Paul ? ” 

“ Downstairs, mum, in the offis ; she’s takin 
on awful ! ” (This by way of mild suggestion.) 

“ Who is Edson ? ” asked H., as I folded up 
my papers. 


72 


EDS ON'S MO THEE, 


“ That Maine man in ward P — , don’t you 
remember? who has twice been so desperately 
low. This time the doctor says there is abso- 
lutely no chance for him. I wrote his friends 
last week, but hardly hoped he would live to 
see them.” 

Downstairs I went, making on the way a 
quick instinctive picture of the person I was 
about to see. “ Given a man, to evolve his 
wife and mother,” is a problem which pos- 
sesses undying interest for the female mind, — 
at least for mine. A hospital affords unlimited 
black-board for demonstration of that sort; and 
though my lines were always getting into tangles, 
and A and B refusing to equal C, still I worked 
on undiscouraged. What though our weakly, 
nervous little drummer proved to possess a parent 
of the ancient Roman type, majestically double- 
chinned, whose air, as she sat by his bedside, 
was as that of a royal eagle brooding over an 

invalid peewit ? What though Sergeant T , 

the tawny-bearded and lion-faced, who had ejacu- 
lated “ Thunder ! ” and “ O pshaw ! ” with such 
unction over Dora in David Copperjieldy turned 


ED SON'S MOTHER. 


73 


out the lawful owner of a Dora of his own ? — 
I persisted in my little problem, and, a vision 
of the sinewy, reserved Maine man crossing my 
mind as I ran downstairs, — his mother must 
be like him, I thought ; of the same type, an- 
gular, self-contained, strong. This idea full in 
my mind, and my heart brimming with sympathy, 
I opened the office door. A gurgling sound as 
of a faucet imperfectly turned met my ear, and 
before me sat — what } 

My first impression was wonderment that any 
thing so big and so helpless should have been 
suffered to come from Maine alone. Tall, and 
enormously fat, — that quivering, aimless fat which 
suggests absence of bones underneath ; a tight 
string of gold beads encircling her neck below 
a terrace of chins ; a pair of blue, lack-lustre 
eyes, from which a stream of tears was dripping ; 
two limp, appealing hands crossed on her lap, — 
such was Edson’s mother! I stopped, struck 
dumb for one instant by my own excessive folly ; 
then, rallying, hastened forward. 

“ I am glad you could come, Mrs. Edson, — 
we had hardly hoped it ; and I am thankful to 


74 


EDSON^S MOTHER. 


say you are in time to see your son. He is 
perfectly conscious, though very weak.” 

The poor old woman gave a series of strange 
gulps, and the tears ran faster ; but she said 
nothing. 

“ Would you like to go at once to the ward, 
or will you rest a while first, and drink a cup of 
tea ? I think that will be the better plan, unless 
the delay is too painful for you.” 

The fat neck slowly shook the fat head. I rang 
the bell, and, while Mrs. Edson composed herself 
on the creaking lounge, essayed a little comfort. 

“ The doctors say that your son has won- 
derful rallying-power. They do not speak en- 
couragingly of him now, but you know he has 
revived twice before when almost as low as this ; 
so it is just possible — ” 

The maternal head was slowly shaken afresh. 

“ Oh no, he ain’t a-goin to git well,” she 
sobbed. “ I ain’t prepared for that.” 

“ It is wise not to be too hopeful ; still — ” 

“ His Pa’s made all the arrangements,” she 
interrupted ; “ the body’s to be took on by Pratt’s 
Express. Pa’s spoke to the man, and all.” 


EDSON^S MOTHER. 


75 


At this juncture tea appeared, x made her 
a cup ; and, when she appeared somewhat quieted 
and refreshed, proposed taking her to her son. 
To my surprise she hesitated and hung back. 

“ You’ll go, too ? ” she asked. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ I can’t be left alone. I should just go all 
of a heap if I was,” she asserted. 

The evening was clear and cool. Little rosy 
clouds were floating above a soft, daffodil-hued 
sunset. “ Retreat ” was sounding \ the flag came, 
slowly fluttering in heavy folds, down its tall 
staff. The officers were grouped on the piazza 
of headquarters j altogether the place wore its 
pleasantest aspect. I pointed out these things 
to my companion, hoping to interest her ; but 
she scarcely listened, and clung to my arm in a 
way which promised ill for the coming inter- 
view. 

“ Remember ” (impressively, — my hand on the 
latch), “that your son is very, very weak. You 
must control yourself. If you cry, or agitate him, 
it may cost his life ! ” 

“ P ” was our crack ward. Its perfections had 


76 


EDSON'S MOTHER. 


cost both time and labor. I was justly proud 
of them, and trusted its aspect of comfort and 
order would soothe Mrs. Edson’s nerves. But 
as we passed up the long, light room, with its 
spotless floor, its neat rows of pallets with trim 
blue counterpanes and snowy pillows, its walls 
hung with gay prints, and rocking-chairs “ atilt 
with heroes,” her trepidation increased. We 
reached the screened bed, — I held her back. 

“ Edson ! ” 

Slowly the heavy lids unclosed. 

“Here is something pleasant. Your mother 
has come all the way from Maine to make you 
a visit ! Would you like to see her now ? ” 

The lips formed an inaudible “ yes.” I mo- 
tioned Mrs. Edson to advance, — to my surprise 
she hung back and refused to stir. Her eyes 
wildly sought after the door ; she seemed so 
ready for escape that I seized her arm. It was 
actually necessary to exert some strength to pro- 
pel her round the corner of the screen and into 
her son’s line of vision. Any thing so inert and 
heavy 1 never imagined before. I guided her 
hand to his helpless fingers, seated her by the 


EDSON'S MOTHER. 

bedside, and after a word or two moved away 
to leave them in greater freedom. 

Mrs. Edson clutched my dress. 

“ Don’t ! she gasped, — “ don’t go.” 

“ Only to speak to this man close by,” I said, 
wonderingly. # 

“ Oh don’t ! I can’t be left alone of him. I’m 
afraid ! ” 

“ Afraid of what?” 

“ I’m afraid,” was the only answer. 

She was reasonless as a child, — or as several 
dozen children rolled into one. I could neither 
calm nor convince, so remained perforce, “ mak- 
ing conversation ” and trying to hide from the sick 
man the spectacle of his agitated parent. The 
scene at last became too ludicrous and too pain- 
ful for endurance. I conveyed Mrs. Edson, noth- 
ing loath, to the far end of the ward, and left 
her in the little nurse’s room, under charge of 
“ Mary,” promising to call and take her away 
when I had finished my rounds. 

Ah, those rounds ! — that slow passage from 
bed to bed j those mute looks of recognition 
and regard ; the strange friendship which united 


78 


EDSON'S MOTHER. 


those who suffered and those who served : how 
unreal and far away they seem in these days of 
peace and reaction ! how impossible ! and yet 
how bracing are they to memory, When, — 

“ Sad with the breath of that diviner air, 

That loftier mood,” — 

we turn back to catch a pulse of the inspiration 
which once tingled in our veins, and which 
carried a whole nation on its impetuous tide 
for four wonderful years. 

Going back to Edson after a while, I surprised 
a look of relief in his impassive face. 

“ Is — my — mother — gone ? ” he whispered, 
a long pause between each word. 

“Yes. She seems very tired to-night. To- 
morrow she will be rested and able to be a 
comfort to you, I hope.” 

The next day and the next our patient was 
very low. His life hung by a thread, the doctor 
said, and the ward surgeon shook his head 
gravely when I ventured a word of hope. But 
there was something in the man’s indomitable 
eyes . which forbade despair. Plainly as eyes 


EDSON'S MOTHER. 


79 


could speak they said, “ I mean to live.” Once 
he asked for his mother. It was not easy to 
persuade her to enter the ward again, but we 
said she must ; which coercion we afterwards re- 
gretted, for she moaned and cried hysterically 
every moment of the time, and clutched my dress 
tightly, to prevent any stirring from her reach. 
Her gulping sobs arrested her poor son’s atten- 
tion at length. 

He was evidently distressed. “ Don’t — 
mother — ” he said feebly more than once; and 
at last summoning all his strength for the effort 
he beckoned me nearer, and gasped in an almost 

inaudible voice : “ Miss , if — my — mother 

— doesn’t — go away — I — shall — die.” 

We hurried Mrs. Edson off, and this was^ the 
last interview between them. A boat load of 
wounded arrived that night, and for a day or two 
I was too busy to pay further attention to her. 
The nurses reported that she spent her time in the 
linen-room, collecting and putting in order her 
son’s clothing ; and I was glad that her maternal 
anxiety should find so safe and practical an outlet.. 

The fifth day came. Early in the morning bad 


8o 


EDSON^S Af OTHER. 


news arrived from Ward P. Edson was dying. 
We broke the tidings as gently as possible to his 
mother, and proposed that she should go to him ; 
but she showed such misery of reluctance that I 
forbore to press the point, and hurried down alone. 

Doctor met me with a very grave face. The 

ward was awfully quiet ; the laughs and merry 
chatter had hushed to silence ; the men grouped 
about the stoves wore solemn, expectant faces ; a 
few were peeping round the comer of the screen 
within which lay Edson, with gray, set features, 
unconscious of us all, drifting fast on that dark, 
retreating tide whose reflux brings no vestige from 
the other shore. I watched him a moment, and 
still an instinct whispered of hope. 

“Might I not give him some champagne, 
doctor ? ” 

“ Certainly, if he can take it ; but I fear it will 
be of no use.” 

I persevered ; slowly and painfully, drop by 
drop, pouring it between the stiffening lips ; the 
muscles of the throat moving ever so slightly, but 
enough to prove that it was swallowed. Spoonful 
after spoonful, — hour after hour. The clock 


EDSON^S MOTHER. 


8l 


struck eleven. It was the hour of the daily boat ; 
her whistle sounded down the bay. A change of 
hue was coming into the still, gray face on the 
pillow, not more lifelike perhaps but a hue less 
like death ; and my hopes rose a little. Just 
then Mrs. Smith, good “ Mary ” of Ward P, flew 
up the room at a pace very different from her 
usual noiseless prowl, and whispered, — 

“ What do you think ? Mrs. Edson is going ! ” 
“Going!” 

“ Yes, in the boat. She says it is of no use to 
stay ! And she wants to speak to you a minute.” 

I thrust the spoon and glass in her hands and 
almost ran out of the ward. Sure enough, there 
was Mrs. Edson, bonneted and shawled, with a big 
bundle beside her, and her bag in her hand. She 
looked fairly alive, for the first time since her 
arrival at the hospital, and greeted me with a 
voice that was loud and voluble : — 

“ Yes, Miss , I’m goin.’ My old man’s lone- 

some enough, I reckon, and I’d better be getting 
along toward home. I’ve taken poor Charles’s 
things. He won’t need ’em any more, and it’s 
best they should go. His shirts is all here, 
6 


82 


EDSON'S MOTHER, 


exceptin’ one which the lady in the linen-room 
couldn’t find ; and there’s some new flannel ones 
which come from the store in P., and hain’t never 
been used : them I shall return ; the folks can’t 
say nothing against takin’ them back, under the 
circumstances, and they’re too small for Pa and 

John. And about Charles, Miss ; his Pa was 

a-speakin’ to the man at Pratt’s Express about 
carryin’ on him up to Pequasset ; and he said he 
would attend to it for twenty-eight dollars. It’s a 
good deal of money; but we’ve ’lotted to spend 
it. I s’pose he can be boxed up here.” 

I bowed, fairly unable to speak. 

“Please direct, ‘Care Samuel P. Jacks, Provi- 
dence,’ ” she went on. “ He’s brother-in-law to 
Pa’s sister, and he’ll see to having it put aboard 
the cars all straight. And Pa’ll send the money 
for the express. It has got to be paid beforehand, 
the man says.” 

The boat stopped at the dock, her blue smoke 
curling aloft in the crisp October air. Mrs. Ed- 
son collected her parcels. 

“That’s all, I reckon. Good-by, Miss . I 

shall al’ays say and stick to it that Charles was 


EDSON'S MOTHER. 


33 


well cared for by you. Of course a hospital can’t 
be like home. We all know that ! ” Dispensing 
these final words as a benediction, she shook her 
vast skirts and moved away. Ten minutes later 
the “Thos. Beecher” steamed up the bay, and 
that was the last of Edson’s mother. 

Or not quite the last. Strange to say, after two 
days of desperate exhaustion our patient rallied 
for the third time. I never saw so iron a will. 
He resolved to live, and he did live. This time 
the rally was a final one. For days he subsisted 
upon champagne. How many dozen bottles he 
drank I cannot now remember. I know their value 
more than covered the sum which his frugal parent 
had “’lotted” to spend upon his mortuary travels. 
And, while he mended, telegraphs came pouring 
in from “Samuel P. Jacks, Providence:” “Sur- 
prised to hear nothing of Charles. Hope there is 
no mistake ! Please forward it by the boat to- 
morrow.” And all this while the “ It ” was a “ 
and beginning to consume beef-steaks in goodly 
quantity ! More embarrassing still was the neces- 
sity of accounting to Edson for the disappearance 
of all his wearing apparel. He actually had noth- 
ing but an old army overcoat left to come to life 


84 


EDSON’S MOTHER. 


in ! We concealed the horrors of the situation as 
long as we could, but little by little they leaked out. 

“ I can’t think what my mother was about,” he 
said, with a sort of pathetic patience. “ If she’d 
even left my writing paper I could let her know I 
was getting well ; but she took every sheet, and 
my pocket-handkerchiefs, and my hair-comb ! It’s 
a very strange way of acting ! ” 

Happily it was in our power to relieve his wants. 
The affluent charities of the time kept our shelves 
supplied with every necessary and luxury known 
to man. From these kindly gifts we drew. Three 
months later, hale and hearty in spite of his mis- 
sing leg, Edson, no longer an “ It,” but clothed 
and in his right mind, took the morning-boat in 
propria persona^ and, without the assistance of 
Pratt’s Express, returned to his native Maine. 

We hear from him occasionally. He is well. 
He has a farm and a wife, and is content and 
prosperous, though with true New England caution 
he takes care not to say so. But he has never 
mentioned his mother, and how he and she settled 
the perplexing matter of the flannel shirts, we 
shall never know. 


MARTIN. 


It was in the second year of the recent war, 
which seems so strangely shadowy and far away 
to most of us, that we made acquaintance with 
our Martin. He was a wounded boy from a 
New Hampshire regiment : we, volunteer nurses 
in charge of Wards E, F, and G, fractional parts 
of the great Jaggers’ Hospital. Why our little 
town of Soundside was selected as the site of The 
Jaggers nobody knew. ‘Hospitals in those days 
came and went “unsought, unsent,” like love, 
or measles, and were planted haphazard in 
unlikely spots. Soundside was a most unlikely 
spot, but none the less were we proud and glad 
to be chosen. Scraping lint and making sanitary 
jelly had of itself been counted privilege, but 
how infinitely greater that privilege when the 
recipients thereof lay at our very door, and we 


86 


MARTIN. 


with our own eyes could watch our offerings 
applied and enjoyed. 

Looking back I can see it all clearly, — the 
wide, tree-shaded grounds, the long line of tents 
and barracks, the extemporized kitchens, to which 
came daily largesses of jam and home-made beef- 
tea of every shade of complexion, the linen-room 
with its window crowded by convalescent “ braves 
demanding “ boiled shirts ” and other impossi- 
bilities. I can see the sentries pacing up and 
down, and saluting the surgeon in charge ; a 
worthy who lives in my memory as a huge, 
goodhumored blue cube, besprinkled with brass 
buttons. I can see Ward G, big, airy, noisy; leaf- 
shadows falling through its blindless windows, 
blue quilts turned down with the “ regulation 
peak,” pale heads looking out above them : in 
the darkest corner Martin’s cot ; his face of 
distinct New England type, thin, alert, lit up 
with frank eyes of that hazel brown which we 
do not associate with long life or much success 
in any thing. The doctor comes by on his round. 
We rise to receive him ; the loungers scramble 
out of their chairs. A certain show of discipline 


MARTIN. 


87 


was kept up at The Jaggers, but in reality we 
all did pretty much as we pleased. There was 
little plan about our work ; no leadership. We 
blundered on as best we might. But the air 
worked with us, and the blessed summer ; good- 
will took the place of training, and a fair proportion 
of our invalids recovered, and went back to swell 
the final triumph, or take part in that triumph 
greater still, which attended the orderly fusion of a 
great army into the peaceful ranks of common life. 

Martin’s wound was in the arm, near the shoul- 
der. For some time the doctor hoped to save 
the limb. He bore all pain bravely. I never 
saw him give way until the morning when he 
was told that his arm must go. Then for the 
first time he broke down. 

“ Dear Martin, I am so sorry for you.” 

“I don’t grudge my arm. I’m not sorry I en- 
listed. Don’t think so for a minute,” he sobbed, 
long pauses between the words. “ It isn’t that. ” 
Then he hid his face again. 

It was not until the next evening, when the 
amputation was successfully over, that we learned 
the meaning of his unexplained “ that.” The 


88 


MARTIN. 


convalescents had hobbled out to supper, and 
the ward was still. Martin lay on his pillows 
white and bloodless, but very composed and 
peaceful. 

“ Don’t fan me any longer. It will tire you.” 
Always he was most considerate of those about 
him. 

“ I’m not a bit tired. Don’t you recollect poor 
Riley’s ‘ guessing ’ that I was meant for a fanning- 
machine ? ” 

“ I thought, perhaps, while the rest were away, 
you’d write a letter for me.” 

“ Certainly I will. Shall it be now ? ” and I 
fetched my portfolio and inkstand. 

He nodded without speaking ; then, after a 
minute’s silence, and with a visible effort, began : 

Dear Duly : — You will feel bad about 
what I have to tell you. Yesterday the doctor 
said my arm must come off, and this morning 
he has done it. I am glad it isn’t the right 
arm, for it will be easier to get a living, and in 
many ways I shall miss it less. But it’s pretty 
hard at best, and makes a difference. I feel 


MARTIN. 


89 


that it’s right to let you know about it, and give 
you a chance to say if you want to take back 
your promise. If you do you are free, of course. 
I expect I know what you’ll say, but I would 
rather wait for your letter before telling it. Write 
soon, dear Luly, for I shall be looking out till 
you do. It seems to me as if I love you more 
than ever, though I’ve onlv one arm to help 
along with — ” 

“ Why, Miss Agnes, what’s that ? ” for a great 
tear had fallen on the paper and blurred the 
ink. “ You’re not crying because of me are 
you ? ” 

“ Crying for Luly, Martin. She’ll be so sorry, 
but so proud of you, too.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” smiling for the first time 
since the day before. 

“ Think so 1 I am sure of it.” 

He smiled again, finished the letter calmly, 
and lay quiet for a while. Then, — 

“Tell me again. Miss Agnes. You dorit think 
it’ll make a difference ? ” 

A certain disquiet was apparent in his voice, 


90 


MARTIN, 


as there had been while he dictated the brave 
sentences of the letter. 

“ You see,” he went on, “she’s only seventeen, 
and so pretty ! I don’t suppose you hardly ever 
saw anybody so pretty as she is. All the young 
fellows in our parts wanted her, and I was so 
proud and so happy. It’ll come hard, after hav- 
ing her pick of the country round, to take up with 
a one-^rmed husband ; don’t you think so ? ” 

For answer, I told of the English maiden who, 
when her sailor lover wrote to say that he had 
come out of an engagement minus an arm and 
both legs, and offered to release her from her 
promise, made reply : “ So long as enough of your 
body is left to hold your soul, I am content, and 
am yours.” 

“ Do you think an American is going to be 
behind an English girl in a matter like that ? ” I 
concluded. 

Martin was reassured. He slept well that 
night and the next, and the doctor looked bright. 
We did all that was possible, — fed, guarded, 
watched, and grew momently more hopeful. He 
did not again allude to “Luly,” but there was 


MARTIN, 


91 


eagerness in his eyes at mail-time j and we, his 
nurses, felt impatient to have the interval pass 
and the answer come. “When once he hears 
from her,” we said to each other, “it will be all 
right ; his mind will be easy, and he will get well 
fast.” 

On the afternoon of the third day I was called 
out. “ Somebody wanted me.” I laid down my 
fan, and went into the hall. A brown, wiry little 
person in a “ duster ” stood waiting on the door- 
step. 

“Is it here that Sergeant Martin, of the 3d 
New Hampshire, is? They told me Ward G, 
over there ” — indicating with a gesture the main 
building. 

“ Yes,” I replied, “ he is here, but I am not sure 
that you can see him. His arm was amputated on 
Tuesday, and we are keeping him very quiet. Are 
you a relative of his ? ” 

“ I’m his sister. That is, his father married my 
mother. It’s the same thing,” — the browm eyes 
filling with tears as she spoke. “ When the tele- 
graph came, saying he’d lost his arm, I felt to start 
off, and there was nothing to keep me ; so I set 


92 


MARTIN. 


out at once. I can see him, can’t I? I don’t 
think it’ll do any hurt. We’ve always been friends, 
Martin and me.” 

She looked so good and steady that I did not 
think it could be harmful, and permitted her 
to come in. The meeting was undemonstrative. 
“ Well, Martin ? ” “ How are you, Jessie, and all 

the folks ? ” — a clasp of the remaining hand — 
that was all. She took her seat by his bedside as 
by right. And her presence was so evidently a 
satisfaction to him, that we made arrangements 
for sleeping quarters, and notified Jessie that she 
could stay so long as she wished, or as Martin 
wished for her. 

“ Thank you kindly,” was all her answer ; but 
the pretty brown eyes continued the speech into 
eloquence. She had “ never been much with sick 
folks,” she told us, but was evidently a born nurse ; 
patient, deft, noiseless, observant, possessor of 
that native “faculty” which replaces experience. 
All day long she sat by Martin, feeding him, fan- 
ning, applying ice, changing the wet bandages on 
his arm ; talking a little now and then, or reading 
aloud, but never long enough to weary or excite. 


MARTIN. 


93 


When Martin slept, she would steal from behind 
the screen, and do little services for the other men, 
all with the same quiet helpfulness. Her pres- 
ence was comfort to more than Martin, and we 
were constantly sighing for more nurses like her. 

“ We shall never be able to get along without 
you, Jessie,” said B. one day. “You’ll have to 
take the oath of allegiance and stay on at The 
Jaggers till the end of the war.” 

“ Martin will want me for a good bit yet,” was 
the reply. 

Martin was evidently her one thought. I won- 
dered at times if the relationship, which after all 
was none, had availed to guard his adopted sister 
from the dangers of so close an intimacy where 
was no tie of blood. The brown, sensible face 
told no tales, nor did Jessie seem of the stuff 
out of which love-lorn maidens are constructed; 
still — ! 

Days passed. The time was come and gone 
when answer to Martin’s letter might be looked 
for, but no answer appeared. Martin continued 
very weak : his strength was at a stand-still, he 
did not fall back, but neither did he gain. Every 


94 


MARTIN. 


afternoon a little access of suspense came on 
when the mail appeared and the other men were 
reading their letters. I saw the restless look in 
his eyes, then the depressed pallor which suc- 
ceeded j and if ever I prayed in my life, it was that 
the suspense might end, the answer come, and 
“ Luly ” do her duty ! That she would do it I 
never doubted. 

There was a bad case, just then, in Ward F, 
and I was unavoidably absent a good deal from 
G, an absence made easier by reason of Jessie’s 
helpful presence. Coming in at early twilight 
of the seventh day, I was instinctively aware of 
something amiss. Martin spoke, smiled, when I 
addressed him, but there was an indescribable 
change in his face. It had sunken. Dark shad- 
ows lay about the mouth, the paleness had deep- 
ened into ghastly pallor ; out of the eyes, spite of 
the brave smile, looked a forlornness beyond 
relief. It was the aspect of a man smitten .by 
some sudden and terrible blow. I drew Jessie 
aside. 

“ What’s the matter ? Is Martin worse ? Has 
any thing gone wrong ? ” 


MARTIN. 


95 


“I don’t know,” she said, hesitating over the 
words, and looking very unhappy. “ Nothing has 
happened that I know of — but — he won’t say 
what it is ! ” 

“ What what is ? ” 

“ I went over to the linen room to fetch some 
sheets,” she went on, trying to speak collectedly. 
‘‘When I came back, Martin was lying with his 
face hidden. He made believe to be asleep, but 
he wasn’t asleep. When he moved at last and 
spoke, he looked different ; I can’t say how, but 
I knew it. You know it, too. You asked right 
away what was the matter.” 

“ Did the mail come in while you were out ? ” 
I asked with a sudden fear. 

“I don’t know. Yes, I do; O’Rourke had a 
letter from his wife. It must have come ; but 
Martin said nothing about having any thing. 

*Why? What makes you ask?” 

I would not violate Martin’s confidence, so I 
avoided answer, but every glance at him increased 
my anxiety. Always the same smile, the same pa- 
tience, but always the inexplicable look, set there 
by agencies of pain whose source I dared not 


96 


MARTIN. 


guess. I trembled as the hour of the doctor’s 
visit drew near. One glance at his face as he 
turned from the bedside gave my fears confir- 
mation. 

“ When did this change begin ? ” he asked in a 
low voice. 

“ I can’t say exactly. I was with Keiler till six ; 
when I came back to Martin I saw at once that 
he was not so well. What is it } ” 

“ I hope nothing which may not pass, but there 
are some symptoms of pyema^' 

The hospital scourge ! “ She has killed him,” 

I groaned to myself, but I said nothing. 

Twenty-four hours of alternate hope and fear, 
then we knew the worst ; our Martin was doomed. 
He knew it, too, but the brave look in his 
eyes never faltered to the end. 

The night before he died, we were alone for 
a little while. ‘ 

“You were wrong. Miss Agnes. About her I 
mean — Luly.” 

“ Was I, Martin ? ” 

“Yes. I don’t blame her. It was natural she 
should feel so. If I had been well and hearty 


MARTIN. 


97 


I should have got over it somehow, I suppose, 
instead of — ” he stopped abruptly, then drew 
a note and a card photograph from under his 
pillow. 

“ I want you to take these. Miss Agnes, and 
afterward please send them to her ; and just say 
that I loved her to the last, and didn’t think hard 
in any way. Read it if you like ; the note, I 
mean. Don’t let her feel bad. Don’t tell her it 
killed me ! O Duly ! Duly ! ” 

These words of complaint, the only ones I 
heard him utter, were his farewell to conscious 
life. After that it was all thick cloud and delir- 
ium, or peaceful, merciful unconsciousness. Now 
and then through the wanderings came murmured 
words. “ Enough of your body to hold your soul 
— enough to hold your soul.” “ Duly, you like the 
cherry-hill road, we’ll take it.” “ Smell the lilacs, 
Duly, smell them.” And again, “ Ah, Miss Agnes 
was wrong ! ” Out of these dreary shadows, out 
of the life so gallantly borne, the love that had 
wounded and betrayed, on the evening of the 
fourth day after Luly’s letter came, our Martin 
passed into the full awakening. 

7 


MARTIN. 


98 

We read the note sitting beside his chill and 
peaceful presence. His wandering words had be- 
trayed the truth, and I did not withhold it from 
Jessie. Her face seemed cut in stone as we 
read : — 

‘‘ Mr. Joseph Martin : — 

“ I take up my pen to say that I got your letter, 
and Ma and all of us are very sorry for your acci- 
dent. About our engagement, we was both young, 
and it’s only natural for a girl to feel bad at hav- 
ing a husband that isn’t like other men. So I 
think, and Ma too, that we’d better call it broken 
off. You was real generous to make the offer, 
and I hope there won’t be any hard feeling about 
it. Ma sends her respects, and hopes you’ll soon 
be well. So no more at present from 

“ Yours truly, 

“Lucy Allen.” 


“I’ll take it to her,” said Jessie. 

She was very pale. Her set face looked old 
and gray. In her hand she held Luly’s picture, 
the photograph of a girl with long lustrous ring- 


MARTIN. 


' 99 


lets, and a face whose delicate beauty was only 
marred by a certain coquettish pose of head and 
quality of expression. 

“ You must give Martin’s message, then,” — and 
I repeated it as exactly as I could. 

“I’ll give it,” — with the same set look. 

That evening Martin went home in his coffin, 
and the following morning Jessie followed to at- 
tend the funeral, which was fixed for the ensuing 
week. 

“ I shall come back,” were her last words. 
''There’s nothing for me to do there. I shall 
c»ome back and work here for a spell.” 

We dared not count on this promise, much 
as we wished her return ; but ten days later she 
appeared, looking years older, but otherwise the 
same little, capable, cheerful woman. All that 
summer and autumn she stayed, giving most 
valuable aid, quiet always, handy, indefatigable, 
tender, all that nurse should be. 

It was more than a month before she in any 
way alluded to Martin or to the errand she had 
undertaken. One evening, in a lull of occupa- 
tion, as we sat under the trees for a half-hour’s 


LofC. 


lOO 


MARTIN. 


rest, she spoke, won to confidence perhaps by the 
dewy quiet, and soft twilight sounds of biiVis’ twit- 
ter and sleepy insects’ hum. 

‘‘ I gave that note ” — abruptly. 

“Yes, Jessie, I knew you would.” 

“ But I didn’t give it as you meant I should 

— or as — he — meant ” — she went on, a tremor 
breaking the steady voice. “ She came to the 
funeral, that girl ! She has another beau now \ 
but there was such a stir in the village about 
Martin, that she wanted to share in the glory 
somehow — and — Miss Agnes, she put on black 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“ She did ! We were all in the room with him, 

— mother and his father, and the aunts and un- 
cles and me. And she came in like a widow, in 
a crape veil, and sat down by the coffin, and 
cried, and held her handkerchief over her face ! 
I bore it till they took him away, because he loved 
her so ; but when they carried him out, I couldn’t 
bear it any longer. I just got up before them all. 
I took the note out of my pocket, and went across 
the room and said, — 

“ ‘ Here, Lucy Allen. That is for you.’ 


MARTIN., 


lOI 


“ She was frightened, and caught her breath. 

“‘Take it,’ I said. ‘It is the note you wrote 
Joe Martin, breaking off your engagement be- 
cause he had given an arm to the country. And 
here’s your picture. You’re pretty enough, Lucy 
Allen ; but you killed the boy who loved you, just 
as much as though you had sent the bullet through 
his arm ! He was doing well the day your note 
came, and three days after he was dead. He died 
because he did not want to live any longer in the 
same world with a girl like you I He forgave you ; 
but I don’t, and 1 never will! Take your note 
and go away ! You’ve no place here among us 
who loved Joe. You didn’t love him, or else you 
would not have killed him ! ’ ” 

The passion of her energy made me shiver 
in that warm August air. 

“ Oh, Jessie ! And what did she say ? ” 

“Nothing. She fainted, or made believe, and 
they got her home somehow. I never want to see 
her again.” 

“ Martin forgave her. And the dear Lord for- 
gives us all, Jessie.” 

“I can’t, — don’t ask me. Martin could for- 


102 


MARTIN. 


give, — he was good always; but for me — 
She hid her face a moment, then raised it sud- 
denly. 

“He never once spoke my name, Miss Agnes, 
never once in all his wandering ! It was always 
‘ Luly, Luly ! ’ And she broke his heart, and then 
came to his funeral ! Don’t ask me to forgive 
her ! ” 

What could I answer? Poor Jessie I 


MAY. 


New flowery scents strewed everywhere, 

New sunshine poured in largess fair ; 

“ We shall be happy now,” we say : 

A voice just trembles through the air, 

And whispers, “ May.” 

May ? but we 7nust. No tiny bud 
But thrills with rapture at the flood 
Of fresh young life which stirs to-day. 

The same wild thrill irradiates our blood ; 
Why hint of “ May ” ? 

For us are coming fast and soon 
The infinite witcheries of June ; 

July with ankles deep in hay ; 

The bounteous autumn, — like a mocking tune 
Again sounds, “ May.” 

Spring’s last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet, 
Pauses a moment with white twinkling feet 
And golden locks in breezy play, 

Half teasing and half tender, to repeat 
Her song of, “ May.” 


104 


MAY. 


Ah, Month of Hope ! all promised glee, 

All merry meanings, lie in thee ; 

Surely no cloud can daunt thy day ! 

The ripe lips part in smiling mockery, 

And murmur, “May.” 

Still from the smile a comfort may we glean ; 
Although our “ must-be’s,” “ shall-be’s,” idle seem, 
Close to our hearts this little word we lay, — 

We may not be as happy as we deem. 

But then we — May. 


ONE MAY-DAY, 


A MOVING TALE. 


The ist of May had come. Up rose the sun, 
and up rose Mrs. O’Rooney; for though not 
bound to the chariot wheels of that luminary, and 
wont on most occasions to disregard his sum- 
mons most comfortably, this was not an ordinary 
occasion with the worthy dame. A habit of an- 
nual (or semi-annual) removal teaches irresistibly 
the value of an early rise ; and the ist of May, if 
no other day in the calendar, always found the 
O’Rooney family awake and stirring. 

For many years had the O’Rooneys pervaded 
this seventh district of the busy town. Now a 
garret, now a cellar, received them. The top sto- 
ries of the poorer buildings knew them well: in 
most they had dwelt ; the rest felt them coming. 
They were a reckless, merry, multitudinous race. 
There were big little O’Rooneys, and little little 


io6 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


O’Rooneys, the least of all seldom attaining a 
greater age than one year before a lesser yet ap- 
peared to claim his place. But, big and little, 
they were all alike good-humored, broadly Irish, 
and improvident. The wee-est of all the wee 
ones would take the bread from his mouth to feed 
a hungry playmate or a starved cat; and the 
parental O’Rooneys, content to fling themselves 
and their progeny on the general public for sup- 
port in every tight pinch, never hesitated for a 
moment to unlatch their door and share their 
crust with any more forlorn than themselves. 
“ Sure, what’s enough for nine is enough for ten,” 
was their philosophy. “ We’ll get through some- 
how.” And they always did. 

Their departure from any given quarter was us- 
ually accelerated by a notice to quit from some 
long-suffering landlord. With each removal they 
might be said to burn their bridge behind them, 
and to be presumably certain not to turn up a^in 
in that particular spot. This was no grief to them. 
Life would have seemed dull without this gentle 
perennial excitement. 

“ The crather is afther his rint again,” Mrs. 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


107 


O’Rooney would tell her husband, cheerfully. 
“‘Pay or dare out,’ he sez — small blame to 
him. And where’ll we go next, Tim?” 

“ Well,” Tim would perhaps reply, “ there’s a 
flure in Godfrey Street we’ve niver thried at all at 
all. We might go there. It’s two dollars a week, 
and a pump handy.” 

“ Is it opposite the bake-house, you mane ? ” 
Mrs. O’Rooney would rejoin, with a joyous Irish 
screech. “Think of the convaniance of that, 
now ! It’s likely they’ll give credit for a month or 
more.” 

Fired by this delightful prospect, the family 
duds and belongings would be hastily collected. 
Cheerful and chatty as a flock of crows, the 
O’Rooneys would rise en masse, flit a half mile 
or so, and settle in a new nest ; which twenty-four 
hours would make as disorderly, as shiftless, and 
as cheerful as that which they had just quitted. 

It was from Godfrey Street that they were now 
preparing to move. The “bake-house” having 
long since recognized and shut its doors against 
them, there was the less to regret in departure. 

“Now, boys, tumble up, and on wid your 


io8 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


clothes,” cried the mother. “ There’s a wurrld 
to do this day. See there, now, Norry shames 
you. She’s dressed afore you all.” 

Norry, aged four, was the only girl among 
the nine. This fact Mrs. O’Rooney was wont 
to lament on occasions of hurry and pressure. 
“ Boys is well enough,” she would aver ; “ but 
they’re all tear and no mend, and all soil and no 
scour. Girls for my money ! ” But this munifi- 
cent offer notwithstanding, Norry remained the 
only one. On this particular May morning, how- 
ever, the lack was felt less than usual, for little 
Mary O’Rourke was “ to the fore,” and it would 
have been hard to light anywhere upon a handier 
or more helpful little maid than Mary. 

This small stranger within the O’Rooney gates 
had come to them straight from a hospital, where 
she had half died of ship-fever. Homesick, fee- 
ble, friendless, the poor girl would not have known 
where to lay her sixteen -year-old head except for 
the attic in Godfrey Street, which opened its kindly 
door to take her in. The debt thus incurred she 
repaid with the whole devotion of her warm heart 
and helpful hands. Night and day she labored 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


109 


in the service of these “friends in need.” She 
scrubbed, she cobbled, she swept, she dusted, 
she polished the stove and the boys’ faces. The 
domicile was never so clean, or the family so com- 
fortable, before. Her presence had grown neces- 
sary to them, and, hard as it sometimes was to 
find food for this additional mouth, no one ever 
thought of sending Mary away to shift for herself. 
No, indeed ! They’d pull through somehow, Mrs. 
O’Rooney said ; they always did ; and anyhow 
“there’d be no living without Mary at all at all.” 

She was a pretty, tidy-looking creature, this 
“ angel unawares ” of the O’Rooneys, with the 
blue eyes and glossy black hair of her native Ire- 
land, and lips so ripe and blooming as to truly 
suggest the poet’s image of — 

“ Strawberries smothered in crame.” 

Beauty probably bore its share in the influence 
she exerted over the boys, who, according to their 
mother, were “ good boys, as boys go, but obsti- 
nate as pigs when they’d a mind to.” Certain 
it is that Teddy was never so amenable, or Pat 
— second in size and age — so chivalrous, to 


no 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


any one before ; that Tim and Barney followed 
her about as under a charm; that the smaller 
ones submitted to hair-brushing at her hands 
as at no other; and the baby was always cry- 
ing to be taken into her arms. She was “as 
diver as a rale fairy,” the elder Tim asserted; 
and all the O’Rooney family bore him out in 
the opinion. 

A “ rale fairy ” was needed for the job on hand 
this May-day morning. Breakfast to prepare ; 
beds to uncord and pack ; clothes to sort and tie 
in bundles ; tins, kitchen utensils, what-not, to 
collect and fasten up ; a stove to take down, — all 
amidst the dances and whoops of nine excited 
children, — is no easy task. Mrs. O’Rooney’s 
ordinary method of procedure was irregular as an 
Ojibbeway’s. Things instinctively came out of 
her hands hind side before — wrong end fore- 
most ; but under Mary’s influence something like 
order was infused into the chaos. The boys were 
collected, loaded with articles suited to their 
strength, and sent off at full trot toward the new 
lodgings, with Teddy at their head. It was while 
marshalling this unruly host down the stairs, that 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


Ill 


Mary became aware of a counter-procession on its 
way up. 

First came a youngish man, carrying a big bun- 
dle, and springing lightly along, two steps at a 
time, notwithstanding the apparent weight of his 
burden. A frank-looking fellow he was, with 
wavy hair and kind brown eyes — a little sad — 
such eyes as women like. After him toiled two 
children, each laden with something, — tiny chil- 
dren, boys, the older not more than six. The 
brown eyes met Mary’s as the young man came 
up. She blushed, and confused, she knew not 
why, retreated to her eyrie. To her surprise, the 
party followed. 

“ Is it here we’re to go ? ” inquired the man, in 
unmistakable brogue. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Mary, opening her 
eyes wider. “We’re leaving, ourselves. It’s the 
O’Rooneys we are.” 

“ That’s it,” said the stranger, pulling a bit of 
paper from his pocket and consulting it, — “ that’s 
the name. We’ve rinted the room you’re laving, 
miss, and we’re bringing up our things, being 
turned out of our own bit of a place. But per- 
haps it’s in your way we’ll be ? ” 


II2 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


“ Oh, we haven’t any ‘ way ! ’ ” said Mary, 
laughing. 

“ Then, if it’s no inconvaniance, we’ll fetch 
them up, for it’s at the street-dure they are ; 
and perhaps we can lind you a hand at the same 
time.”' 

“It’s very polite you are, I’m sure,” said Miss 
O’Rourke, and she gave a pretty blush. 

“Such a pair of cheeks haven’t mit my eyes 
before since I left Ireland ! ” thought the young 
man; but he said: — 

“ Oh, niver spake of it, miss ! James Connell’s 
my name, and I’d be proud to assist you, being 
my countryman.” 

So Mary made room for him to pass ; and in 
half an hour the O’Rooneys and the Connells 
were on the footing of old acquaintance, and the 
children were clinging about Mary as if they had 
known her always. They were pretty rogues, with 
clean, well-scrubbed faces ; but their clothes were 
shabby and dilapidated, and there were singular 
attempts at patching, which told of clumsy male 
fingers. “ It’s bad work a man makes trying to 
be father and mother both,” James said. His 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


II3 

young wife had died two years before, on their 
passage over from Ireland, he told them; and 
Mrs. O’Rooney’s motherly heart warmed at once 
to the little ones and their father. 

Any heart would have warmed to Connell, he 
was so wonderfully helpful and handy, and so full 
of good-will. His time and strength were applied 
to the porterage of Mrs. O’Rooney’s valuables as 
cheerfully as to his own. He and Tim should- 
ered each other’s stove-pipes and bedsteads in- 
differently, and the meeting resolved itself into a 
“ bee ” of mutual aid and service. So it came to 
pass that when, at noon, Tim and the boys de- 
parted from the premises, bearing the last bun- 
dles, Mrs. O’Rooney and Mary lingered. To 
their womanly apprehensions “ a lone man,” who 
couldnH know how to set himself to rights, was 
a sorry spectacle ; and, after a whispered consul- 
tation, they frankly offered to stay an hour or 
two and “fix up.” “Ye’ll be the better for it all 
summer,” Mrs. O’Rooney told him. “A man’s 
little worth for getting things straightened, but 
my Mary here’s a rale fairy for the like of that.” 

Connell had excellent wages, and his furniture 
8 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


II4 

was good and substantial, — far better than the 
scanty plenishing it replaced. But the stove 
was dull, the cherry table stained and blackened ; 
every thing lacked its shine. This Mary pro- 
ceeded to give. James and Mrs. O’Rooney sat by, 
and watched her busy hands as she scrubbed and 
dusted and polished ; now pasting a strip of paper 
over a soiled spot, now applying a drop of glue to 
a fracture ; brightening whatever she touched, and 
humming scraps of merry rhyme to the children, 
who chased her as flies do a sunbeam. At last, — 

“Whatever is she, thin,” asked James, “your 
daughter ? ” 

“No, but as good,” whispered back Mrs. 
O’Rooney. 

“ But she called you mother ? ” 

“ So she did, the darlint. She was a poor girl 
from the other side, you see, who we took in sick ; 
but she’s grown to be the light of our eyes. She 
talks of going to sarvice ; but Tim he’ll not hear 
of it, nor me either. No, — not while there’s a 
morsel left in the cupboard, anyhow!” Mrs. 
O’Rooney concluded, with a sigh. 

James asked no more, but his eyes followed 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


I15 

Mary with a steadfast gaze. She became con- 
scious of this at last, and it embarrassed her. 

“ Mother,” she said from the window which she 
was washing, “ this is done now. I’ll just polish the 
kettle a bit and set it on, and then we’ll be going.” 

“Oh! ” cried James, starting up. “You mustn’t 
go without a sup of something, and you tiring 
yourself to aid us. I’ve some tay and a loaf here, 
Miss Mary, and I’ll set the table while the kettle 
boils.” 

But this Mary would not permit. Born house- 
wife as she was, it was pain to see things done 
clumsily. So she took the cloth from him and 
spread it lightly over the freshly-rubbed table, 
brought the cups and plates from the neat dresser 
where she had just ranged them, brewed the tea, 
cut the bread, — all in a noiseless, gentle way, 
which was full of real grace. Connell watched 
her, enchanted ; and when, as they drew up their 
chairs, she proceeded to fill the cups from the 
shining Britannia pot, his feeling of delight and 
comfort found vent in words. , 

“ It’s different intirely ! ” he cried. “Tay hasn’t 
tasted nor bread relished so well since we set foot 
in this country. Has it children ? ” 


ii6 


ONE MAY-DAY, 


“I wiss Maly would stop always,” said the 
youngest, “and sing songs and make tay.” 

“ Do ! do ! ” screamed the other, — “ won’t you, 
Maly?” 

Poor Mary ! But her confusion increased ten- 
fold when Connell seized the other hand and ex- 
claimed, “ Won’t you, Mary ? I mane it,” he went 
on j “ but I’d not have found courage to say it so 
soon except for the talk of the little ones. You’ve 
only known us a day, Mary, but I feel to know 
you always. And when I saw you sitting there 
and smiling, with the tay-pot in your hand, I 
thought within meself, ‘ I can’t niver let her go.’ 
A rale fairy, your mother here calls you ; and I 
belave it. Stay and be a fairy for us, Mary ; for 
niver was a fairy more wanted to the fore than 
here, and just now.” 

“ Well, I declare ! ” began Mary, faintly ; but 
Mrs. O’Rooney chimed in, — 

“And you niver said a thruer word, James. It 
seems suddent, mavourneen ; but listen to him, 
for he manes thruly by you. I know a man when 
I look in his eyes, and I tell you so. ’Twill be 
sore to part from you, darlint, and how we’ll get 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


II7 


along I can’t say ; but there’s a rale home for you 
here, with plinty in it : and that’s more than we 
can give at all at all, for all the good-will that’s 
in our hearts. And them little fellows needs a 
mother, Mary.” 

“We all need you, Mary,” whispered Connell, 
his handsome face close to hers. “ Say ‘ yis,’ 
Mary, and let it be this very night. I feel 
as if I couldn’t let you go, and the room all 
dark behind you ! And where’s a more blessed 
day in the whole year than May-day to begin life 
together ? ” 

“ But I must help mother get to rights,” cried 
sweet Mary. “ Oh no, no ! I can’t, I can’t, I 
can’t ! ” 

We all know what follows after nineteen “ nay- 
says.” 

“ Niver mind me, dear,” cried Mrs. O’Rooney. 

But the impetuous lover added, “And so you 
shall, love. Go you wid her now, and git in order, 
while I stip down and spake to Father O’Brien. 
This evening I’ll come for you all, and we’ll go to 
the praste’s house, and after that we’ll have a bit 
of a supper in this room you’ve made so clane 


ti8 


ONE MAY-DAY. 


and nice ; and it’ll be the happy day always that 
brought us together. Say ‘ yis. ’ ” 

So Mary said yes. She scrubbed diligently till 
sundown, then rebraided her hair, donned her 
“ other gown,” and, attended by all the O’Rooneys, 
went to the “ praste’s house,” — as pretty a bride, 
notwithstanding her long day of house-work, and 
absence of blonde and orange blossoms, as ever 
moonlight shone upon. The match so hastily 
arranged turned out happier by far than some 
entered into after long and punctilious delay ; 
and from that day to this Mary Connell has been 
to husband and children, as to the O’Rooneys, 
“a rale fairy,” blessing and brightening all that 
comes under her hands. 


THE GIBRALTARS: 


A STORY IN FOUR LETTERS. 


LETTER L 

Ralph De Wint to John Blodgett. 

Culpepper, September 5. 

Most Puissant, — The undersigned begs leave 
to hand in his resignation as co-member and as- 
sociate-in-ordinary of the Honorable Club of the 
Gibraltars. 

Cause, — a misnomer. A Gibraltar is nothing 
if not impregnable. I am proved eminently 
“pregnable;” ergo can no longer claim to be a 
Gibraltar. You shall hear. 

To begin, let me state that I am no whit 
ashamed of the confession I am about to make. 
Neither do I despair of one day beholding you 
on your marrow-bones, with a much worse tale 
in your mouth! You consider yourself the bul- 


120 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


wark of bachelorhood, and Fred, who is a noo- 
dle, believes in you no end. My opinion has 
always been that you are most likely of us three 
to make a fool of yourself matrimonially. De- 
pend upon it, for all your sneers and your stiff 
upper lip, and the grim letter you will presently 
indite me, and that habit you have of thanking 
Heaven that you are not as other fallible men. 
Destiny in shape of woman awaits you some- 
where round the corner, and will one day avenge 
us upon you thoroughly. May “ yours truly ” only 
live to see that day ! 

Having thus freed my mind. I’ll proceed to 
my tale, like a true though renegade son of the 
club, and in accordance with By-law No. 6. 

You’ve heard me speak of Jack Allen, my 
old chum of the Ninth Nebraska.? He turned up 
down here the other day, — General Allen now, 
with a post under the Freedmen’s Bureau, and 
quarters at this place. Being a brick, he’s gone 
into the thing thoroughly ; and, besides his regu- 
lar duties, is over head-and-ears in night-schools, 
model farming, and free lectures to the darks. 
Well, he was delighted to see me, and insisted I 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


I2I 


should come and slay with him, which I did. 
That was three weeks ago, — and here I am still ! 

The day after I came, he proposed riding over 
to see one of his out-schools, — or, rather, not ex- 
actly his, he said, but a private enterprise got 
up by some Philadelphia ladies, only the Bureau 
protected and extended an aegis over it. We 
had a glorious six-mile gallop. When we reached 
the place, it turned out the forlornest kind of a 
little slab village, deep in the woods, and couched 
within the hollow of an old deserted rebel earth- 
work ; the population all blacks, Allen told me, 
except the teachers, who were single women and 
semi-Quakers, — excellent old females, but plain, 
unfortunately plain. 

He made this statement just as we were mount- 
ing the rude steps of the “ slab ” school-house, 
and, having made it, he opened the door and 
walked in. School was in session, and whole 
rows of little Culfees turned their shining faces, 
and showed their teeth at the sight of us. But 
I stood stock-still on the threshold, unable to 
move or speak, for behind appeared — 

No ; I can’t give an idea of it ! Coup de soleil 


122 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


is mild in comparison. I was looking for caps, 
sharp noses, spectacles perhaps, — all the com- 
ponent parts which go to make the “ excellent 
woman, unfortunately plain ; ” — and, instead, 
there stood revealed — a pair of angels ! 

Two lovely, radiant girls, in plain gray gowns 
and aprons of snowy whiteness, looking, with 
their dusky scholars about them, like twin lilies 
in a field of — hardback ! Poetical, you see. I 
don’t care. A stone would be poetic under like 
circumstances. The dazzle, the shock of sharp 
contrast, turned me into one. I positively could 
not move for a moment j then I whirled furiously 
round on the villain Jack, but he avoided my 
eye, and began presenting me to the visions in 
gray, with such an ecstatic twinkle and chuckle 
that I could hardly forbear knocking him down 
on the spot. 

Philadelphians, the beauties turned out to be, 
of Quaker extraction both, and dear friends. 
Longing after, work, as half the good women in 
the country were when the war closed, they came 
down and established themselves in this desolate 
spot, within a few months of Lee’s surrender. It 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


123 


was risky business at first, what with scarce food 
and latent bushwhacking ; but somehow they 
didn’t come to grief, as most people would have 
done, and held on bravely till things grew better. 
Brave ! — the word doesn’t express half what they 
were. And there they have been these five long 
years, — not, mind you, because there was any 
need in the case, for both have nice homes and 
plenty of friends, and one (not the one, though) 
a large independent fortune ; but just because 
they longed to be useful. By George ! I tell 
you it makes a man glow and feel all hot with 
pride and happiness, just to know that there are 
such women in the same world with him ! 

I needn’t go on, I suppose. Of course, after 
such an introduction, all was up with me. I 
found a pearl, tried for it, hold it, and make no 
apologies to you, my fellow-numskulls. She (her 
name is Grace, by-th e-way — Grace Brown) is 
going home in the spring to “get ready,” — as 
if, bless her ! she were not perfect and complete 
now, — and I shall buckle to my profession and 
“get ready” also, as far as unworthy man may. 
Some day or other, and somewhere or other, 


124 


THE GIBRALTARS, 


we shall have a home of our own; and in it — 
so Grace says — is to be a special room reserved 
for infirm Gibraltars. Come along, my boy ! bring 
your shattered bulwarks, and end your days with 
us. “A Christian family — lodging — attendance 
— no extras — washing thrown in.” Think of it ! 

I have communicated with Fred. Write and 
congratulate. I salute your High Mightiness, 
and remain Yours, as ever, 

Ralph De Wint, Ex- G ibraltar, 


LETTER II. 

Fred Delano to John Blodgett. 

Boston, September 8. 

Dear Jack, — This is a joint letter to you and 
Ralph, of whose whereabouts I am somewhat un- 
certain. I have a long story to tell, too long to 
write out twice ; so, when you have read and de- 
rided it and me as much as seems to you proper, 
be so good as to forward to him. 

That I have no sympathy to expect from you, 
old Tough-and-Leathery, I am but too well 
aware : as well look for treacle from an ancient 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


125 


gum-tree. And Ralph, who piques himself on 
being made of equal parts gutta-percha and lemon- 
juice, will be no better. However, true to agree- 
ment, I proceed to tell the tale of my undoing, 
“ nothing extenuating nor setting down aught in 
malice.” I call it undoing, observe, purely out 
of consideration for your stand-point; for to me 
it is doings without the least particle of “ un,” — 
the best doing of my life. 

Pride must have a fall. Mine came not off, 
but on, the top of a Plymouth stage, sijQ weeks 
ago exactly. 

We left the Pemigewasset House early of a 
warm morning, a stageful inside, and the usual 
load of people and trunks without. I happened 
to secure a top perch. Directly below sat the 
most beautiful girl I ever saw, — blonde, perfectly 
dressed, and as evidently from New York as if 
the name of that city had been stamped on each 
fold of her dainty garments. 

She had with her a very ordinary “ pa,” and 
a friend of her own age, whom, from a certain 
direct simplicity of manner and garb, I set down 
as Bostonian. My supposition was confirmed. 


126 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


An artful peep at the baggage revealed trunks 
marked “ Doubleday, New York,” and “ Ellis, 
Boston \ ” and the conversation of the fair passen- 
gers before long supplied the Christian names, — 
Rose and Antoinette. Antoinette was the beauty. 

And a real beauty she was. I don’t know 
that I ever saw any thing finer and more cameo- 
like than the outline of her face, framed in golden 
hair all looped and fluffed in' a ravishing way, with 
here and there a glittering curl falling softly 
over her shoulder. The toilette, too, exactly 
what I like, — ornate, fanciful, delicate in tint, 
sugges^ting ease, luxury, all the graceful perqui- 
sites of beauty rather than use. You know I 
hate — or rather used to hate — a woman who 
savors of every-day. Altogether, the fair New 
Yorker beside her companion was like some 
dainty bird-of-paradise contrasted with a quiet 
domestic fowl. Though, when you came to look, 
the young lady from the Hub had a nice, bright 
little face enough ; but then, you see, I didn’t 
happen to look particularly just then. 

As you’ve been up in that region, you know 
the beautiful road througli* the Pemigewasset 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


127 


Valley. It was splendid that day, the mountains 
standing out sharp and blue against a hot, dreamy 
sky, and a breeze all the way. I never enjoyed 
a ride more ; but the driver said there was a 
storm in the air. 

My plan had been to leave the stage at the 
entrance of the Notch, do the Flume and Pool, 
and follow on to the Profile House later in the 
day. I had about given it up in my own mind 
since seeing the fair Antoinette, but to my joy 
she and her father announced a like intention ; 
and we agreed to form one party, and have a 
wagon sent for us in the afternoon. The stage 
therefore set us down on the piazza of the Flume 
House, and rolled away, while we proceeded on 
our walk as sociably as possible, I carrying the 
beauty’s shawl, and otherwise disporting myself 
like an old acquaintance. 

We chatted and we scrambled, and partook of 
an impromptu lunch of doughnuts, and all went 
merry as a marriage bell ; until, just as we were 
under the big boulder at the very top of the 
Flume, a sudden rumble of thunder broke the 
quiet, and we became aware of a dark cloud. 


128 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


Of course we started for shelter with all possible 
haste, but before we reached the road it was 
pouring in torrents, and by the time the house 
was gained we were wet as drowned rats. I 
never saw it rain so hard in my life ! Drenched 
and dripping, we crowded into the hall, and lo 
and behold ! there was another paity quite as 
wet as we — twenty of them at least — who had 
been caught in the same way at the Pool. 

You can imagine the charms of the situation in 
that rickety old structure. The Hotel was burned 
some years ago, and has been rebuilt just so far 
as to leave the second floor a rough loft, and the 
lower a collection of shapeless chicken-coops, par- 
titioned off by laths. There were a few chairs, 
and a map of the White Mountains by way of 
adornment, and in the back regions a sort of 
kitchen ; but nothing comfortable or comforting in 
the way of furniture, fire, or food. I assure you it 
was dismal enough, especially for the ladies. 

And here it was that the lovely Antoinette 
ceased to be the heroine of the drama, and the 
mettle 'of my Boston girl began to show. I call 
her mine^ observe, scorning disguises from this 


THE GIBRALTARS, 


129 


time forward ; although up to this point I flatter 
myself I have brought you as cleverly along as 
any novelist of the day, and without giving the 
least hint of the denouement. Yes, my beauty 
ceased just here to be beautiful. It was not the 
bedraggled forlornity of her dress — absurdly as 
it looked after its wetting — which disenchanted 
me, but the stress of vexation with which she 
viewed the ruin ; the petulant, aggrieved mood 
produced by our common misfortune ; the selfish 
helplessness of her whole attitude ; the entire un- 
consciousness of other people’s discomfort, and 
the way in which she snubbed and scolded her mis- 
erable and equally wet “ pa.” It was all his fault, 
she declared ; he was always getting her into such 
scrapes; he ought to be ashamed of himself! 
The luckless old gentleman bore these reproaches 
with the stoicism peculiar to the American parent. 
“ Now, Netty ! now, Netty ! ” he said, feebly, once 
or twice ; but when the tirade finally ended with a 
burst of tears, he succumbed utterly, clasped his 
hands behind his dispirited old back, and began 
to walk up and down the room in dejected silence. 
I assure you our hearts all ached for him. 


130 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


Meantime, like the rose just washed in -the 
shower, my peerless little Bostonian shone the 
brighter for being rained upon. Before we 
guessed what she was at, back she came from 
somewhere with an armful of wood, and was 
down on her knees before the fireplace, coaxing 
it to burn. Then it was, “ Netty, your boots are 
soaked ; pull them off, dear.” 

But Netty pouted and refused. So her friend 
attacked the shoes, unbuttoned them, and fairly 
put the sulky feet to dry in the glow of the fire. 
Next she found a chair for “pa,” helped him off 
with his wet overcoat, and seated him comfortably. 
Then I saw her in a quiet way going about among 
the rest. A pleasant, cordial glow appeared in 
her manner which was not there before ; she grew 
bright and easy while caring for others. Every 
one felt the charm; even the awkward country 
“ help ” seemed to move quicker when she spoke, 
brought tea, bread, milk, and buzzed and flew 
about her sunny looks as flies do in a warm win- 
dow-pane when it rains. 

Meantime the storm was getting to be some- 
thing tremendous. I never heard any thing like 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


131 

the wind j trees were blown down, the crazy 
house shook and trembled, the Pemigewasset was 
reported rising, the bridges in danger, and all 
chance of getting away was evidently over for the 
night. Every one was frightened more or less, 
and only too glad of shelter, such as it was ; so we 
proceeded to make ourselves comfortable as best 
we might be where comfort was none. The one 
carpeted floor was given up to the ladies. Miss 
Doubleday, rolled by her friend and anxious par- 
ent in every conceivable wrap, was deposited in 
a corner, from which from time to time plaintive 
whines became audible. Her long-suffering “pa,” 
poised on two legs of his chair, sleptj finally 
snored. I didn’t even try for slumber, — being 
a wide-awake by nature, — but lit a cigar, and 
amused myself with watching the dear little sprite 
from Boston, as she flitted about, planning, con- 
triving, settling people in good places, and taking 
care generally of every body — except herself. 
Something about her face and manner reminded 
me of my mother. Jack. You remember her, don’t 
you ? You saw her once. 

Some time after midnight I lost sight of her for 


132 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


a while, and growing restless I wandered out 
into the hall. There she sat on the staircase 
with a baby in her arms, and a tired-out woman’s 
head pillowed in her lap. The baby was asleep 
too, luckily, for otherwise we shouldn’t have 
had the talk we had. Boys, it was that talk did 
for me ! It had been brewing all the evening, but 
somehow the things she said — not remarkable 
things, but nice and womanly and sweet, the sort 
of things a fellow wants his wife and sister to say 
— and the look of her eyes, and the weary expres- 
sion of her dear little face went right to my heart. 
Talk of balls and parties, indeed, as places for 
young people to get acquainted ! Why, you might 
dance round-dances with a girl year in and out, 
and never get so near, or find out what she really 
was half so well, as I did in that one night’s vigil. 

By morning, I was over head-and-ears. Of 
course we went up together to the Profile, and 
equally of course I didn’t leave her there, but 
followed on to Crawford’s, the Glen, Conway, 
and finally here. It’s only two days, however, 
since the actual denouement took place, and 
Rose’s mother says that was shamefully prema- 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


133 


ture. But I don’t know what a fellow is to do, 
who has got to be back at his business by the 
15th, except be premature. Any way, Rose didn’t 
think so, and the matter is all settled. 

Boys, wait till you see her. Inveigh as much 
as you like over my defection : only see her, and 
I’ll bet my head you’ll “ defect ” yourselves on 
the next opportunity. I have told her all about 
you and our — well, preposterous association; and, 
though it made her laugh a great deal, she’s quite 
prepared to be the best of friends, if you meet her 
half-way. You should hear her laugh — just like 
little bells ; and she’s real Boston, I can tell you, 
and up in all the ologieSy in spite of being so 
sweet and jolly. 

Write, both of you, and say if I haven’t made 
out my case. Yours ever, 

Fred Delano. 


LETTER III. 

John Blodgett to Ralph De Wint. 

New York, September 10. 
My dear Ralph, — I have your letter, and by 
the same mail the enclosed effusion from Fred, 


134 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


written in the style of a gushing boarding-school 
miss. I reserve comment on either until some 
calmer moment, and content myself with hoping 
that your present raptures may last. As I have 
never concealed my sentiments on the subject, 
you will hardly expect congratulations from me. 
The sentimental was left out when Nature put me 
together; I must endure the fact as well as I 
may, and, solacing myself with the poor comfort of 
consistency, remain the sole surviving Gibraltar. 

Of course your withdrawal is a blow, as far as 
my personal comfort goes. I’ve no idea of tying 
myself to the kite-tail of your loves ; so when I 
return to town, a month from now, I shall break 
up our establishment and retire to other quarters. 
Meantime I am going to Sharon. Why Sharon ? 
That I do not know exactly. Estabrook has come 
back from his vacation. I must go somewhere ; and 
they say it is the dullest place on the continent, 
and all the people have gone away, which is exactly 
what my present mood relishes. Therefore, vale. 

Thank your fair Quakeress for her message. 
I’ve had such before from my friends’ wives — be- 
fore they were married. Yours truly. 


J.B. 


THE GIBRALTARS, 


135 


LETTER IV. 

Miss Essie Barille to Mrs. Arden. 

Sharon, October 6. 

Ch]^rie, — I have treated you shockingly of 
late as to writing, and so on \ but you are going 
to forgive me, because I have a piece of news 
for you, and on my honor you are the first to 
whom I have told it, excepting ma. Of course 
you are guessing already what it is, and are all 
ready to spell it out. “ En-gage-ment.” That’s 
right, dear, — perfect : go up to the head of the 
class ! 

Yes, I am engaged ! Sharon has done it for 
me at last ; so I am bound to speak well hence- 
forward of the horrid place, though you know how 
I always hated it. I was enraged enough at hav- 
ing to come this year, for the Salettes had made 
up a yacht-party, with Eugene Astor and Emily 
Finch ; and if Cousin Jule hadn’t chosen to fall ill 
just at the wrong time, she could have come with 
ma, as usual, and I should have gone with them. 
But, you see, we never know ; so it’s no use fuss- 
ing when things go wrong. 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


136 

I was so cross about it when we first got here 
that I made myself disagreeable to every one, left 
off crimps, and just lay on the bed most of the 
time, reading novels and sulking. In fact, there 
was nobody in the house worth a crimp ; the 
season was on its very last legs, — and you know 
how horrid these second-rate little places become 
when that takes place. 

Then Mr. Blodgett came. (Isn’t it a stupid 
name? “John Blodgett,” — so prim and pre- 
cise !) I didn’t notice him at all at first, and 
he looked \as offish as I felt \ so we didn’t get 
on, though of course he was introduced, and all 
that. But when he had been here about a week I 
got a letter from Jane Calhoun, telling me about 
her cousin Miss Ellis’s engagement to a very nice 
Mr. Delano, whom they met this summer in the 
mountains. 

“ By-the-way,” she wrote, “do you happen to 
know a Mr. Blodgett who is now at Sharon ? If so, 
do tell us what he is like. We are dying to hear ; 
for he is a great friend of Mr. Delano’s, and he 
and Rose are in the greatest twitter to learn how 
he takes the news of their engagement. It seems 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


137 


that they, with one other young man, constitute a 
club called ‘ the Gibralfars,’ — so named because 
its members consider themselves impervious to 
female charms generally. Did you ever hear of 
such idiots ? And the oldest of them is but thirty- 
two ! That’s Mr. Blodgett. He seems to be 
the leading spirit of the three ; and, though Fred 
laughs. Rose says she can see that he is quite ner- 
vous as to what he will say.” 

This passage made me look a little more curi- 
ously at Mr. Blodgett, and I began to think him 
“ foeman worthy of my steel.” He’s really fine- 
looking, dear, and his air is not bad, — comme il 
faut, if not exactly distingti^. And then — which 
stimulated my pique — he didn’t seem to care a 
pin to pursue my acquaintance. So, to make a 
long story short, I donned my armor and “went 
for that heathen Chinee,” expecting a tough con- 
flict. My dear, on the contrary, this famous Gib- 
raltar proved as easy a fortress as I ever met. He 
melted like butter before my eyes ! I had a pre- 
sentiment that the violet-primrose tack would be 
a failure ; so I didn’t even attempt it, but took 
the rble of belle femme du monde with right princi- 
ples, and some latent religious feeling thrown in. 


138 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


I should judge he had lived all his life with 
goody women, and was tired of their fadaises^ so 
rapidly did he swallow my bait. Why ! I didn’t 
even bring up the heaviest artillery (^you know 
what I mean), but just kept to the ordinary siege 
guns. My Gibraltar loved to talk, aimed at the 
cynical, but was too soft-hearted to do it well. I 
met him gracefully on both tacks. In ten days I 
had carried the out-works, down to the least re- 
doubt. A fortnight showed the very citadel in 
distress. Up to this time it was all play, of course ; 
but just then I heard something which changed 
play to earnest. My dear, it is the Blodgett, who 
came in for the great Desbrow estate ! Think of 
that ! Of course the game became serious. Find- 
ing him ripe for it, I just cut off supplies for forty- 
eight hours, and removed my forces to the castle 
next in order at the breakfast-table. Desperate 
at being no longer the object of attack, the garri- 
son rose in revolt; flung down the impregnable 
draw-bridge, hung out red flags, white flags, all 
colored flags, opened the portcullis, and cried for 
quarter. Of course I granted it; received the 
offered keys with the air of Queen Philippa at 
Calais, spared the lives of the principal inhabi- 


THE GIBRALTARS. 


139 


tants, and, mounted on a high horse, rode trium 
phantly into my city, and was received with high 
masses, pealing of hells, /eux de joie, and installed 
thenceforward governess and most puissant lady- 
paramount over it and all its dependencies. 

Two of these said dependencies 1“ may say I 
dread, — namely, the other members of the Gib- 
raltar Club. It required all my influence and di- 
plomacy to induce Mr. Blodgett to write them of 
our engagement. He evidently shrank from it, in 
the most singular manner ; and yet, strange to 
say, both these fellow-idiots of his have done ex- 
actly what he has done, — that is, fallen in love 
with girls they hadn’t known a month. Why he 
should dread them I can’t conceive ; but he does ; 
and, till the mighty confession is replied to, I do 
not feel my reign secure. 

Adieu, carissima. We return on Wednesday, 
and plunge at once into shopping. My fortress 
demands that I shall establish permanent resi- 
dence in January. Write speedily. Tout h toi, 

Essie. 

P.S. — Two jubilant telegrams from Mr. Delano 
and Mr. De Wint. Hurrah ! That’s the last, I 
hope, of the Gibraltars. 


MY RIGHTS. 

Yes, God has made me a woman, 

And I am content to be 
Just what He meant, not reaching out 
For other things, since He 

Who knows me best and loves me best has ordered 
this for me. 

A woman, to live my life out 
In quiet, womanly ways. 

Hearing the far-off battle. 

Seeing as through a haze 

The crowding, struggling world of men fight through 
their busy days. 

I am not strong or valiant, 

I would not join the fight, 

Or jostle with men in the highways, 

To stain my garments white ; 

But I have rights as a woman, and here I claim my 
right : 


MY RIGHTS. 


I4I 


The right of a rose to bloom 
In its own sweet, separate way, 

With none to question the perfumed pink, 

And none to utter a nay 

If it reaches a root or points a thorn, as even a rose- 
tree may ; 

The right of the lady-birch to grow, — 

To grow as the Lord shall please. 

By never a sturdy oak rebuked. 

Denied nor sun nor breeze. 

For all its pliant slenderness kin to the stronger trees ; 

The right to a life of my own, — 

Not merely a casual bit 
Of somebody else’s life flung out. 

That, taking hold of it, 

I may stand as a cipher does, after a numeral writ ; 

The right to gather and glean 
What food I need and can 
From the garnered stores of knowledge 
Which man has heaped for man, 

Taking with free hands freely and after an ordered plan ; 

The right — ah ! best and sweetest — 

To stand all undismayed 
Wherever want, or sorrow, or sin 
Call for a woman’s aid. 


142 MY RIGHTS. 

With none to cavil or misconstrue, by never a look 
gainsaid. 

I do not beg for a ballot, 

Though very life were at stake ; 

I would beg for the nobler, juster way, — 

That men, for manhood’s sake. 

Should give ungrudgingly, nor withhold till I must 
fight and take. 


The fleet foot and the feeble foot 
Both seek the self-same goal ; 

The weakest soldier’s name is writ 
On the great army roll ; 

And God, who made man’s body strong, made too the 
woman’s soul. 


META’S WEDDING. 


It may be said to have begun the day the en- 
gagement took place, seven months and a half 
ago. From the moment when, blushing and tear- 
ful, with Fred’s arm around her waist, and a new 
diamond ring on her finger, Meta was handed about 
among her nearest relations for the ceremony of a 
solemn kissing, until now, when, hot-cheeked and 
excited, she is hanging over the upstairs baluster 
to see who has rung the door bell, nothing else has 
been talked of, thought over, or planned for, in the 
mansion of the Grinnells. It has been, so to speak, 
one long, continuous wedding-day. 

That undignified but irresistible position at 
the stair-top has been filled by the bride some 
twenty-five minutes out of every hour for the 
last six days ; for the wedding presents have 
been coming in. With each tempting parcel 
the thin cheeks have burned with a hotter flush, 


144 


META 'S WEDDING. 


and the circles under the eyes deepened and 
darkened. 

“ The child is just killed with excitement,” Mrs. 
Grinnell observes complacently to a friend. 

And the other replies, sympathetically, as she 
glances around the dressing-room, with its costly 
strew, “ And no wonder ; for such a display I 
never did see, — never ! Not a bride this season 
has had any thing approaching it.” 

Well might she say so. Table after table loaded 
with silver, lace, ornaments, bronze, enamel, — 
every thing of the richest and rarest. 

“ Four chocolate sets,” enumerates Mrs. Grin- 
nell, checking the articles off on her fingers, 
“ three coffee, and two complete services for 
tea ; eight trays, large and small ; nineteen dozen 
spoons, four ice-bowls, twenty-eight salt-cellars. 
Did you examine the shawls, my dear? That 
black one is Mrs. Strong’s present. Stewart 
appraises it at twenty-two hundred dollars ; I 
took it down to see. The scarlet is from her 
Aunt Grinnell. And the blue is mine ; I would 
have blue : so sweet, with her eyes and hair, 
you know, — ” 


META'S WEDDING. 


145 


“ Oh, mamma ! ” interrupted Meta, coming in 
wearily, her arms full of bundles ; “ just look 
here ! ” 

“ Another chocolate set, I declare ! ’’ said Mrs. 
Grinnell. “ Well, I can’t imagine what you will 
do with them all ! Who is this one from ? ” 

“Mrs. MacGregor Smith,” depositing the card 
duly on the lid of the sugar-bowl. “ It’s lovely, 
isn’t it? And here’s another ice-bowl from Sue 
Baring ; and — see here, mamma — a pair of 
vases from Aunt Jane, and another from cousin 
Tom. Where shall I put them ? ” 

“ More vases ! ” ejaculated her mother. “That 
makes — let me see — thirty-four pair. I’m sure I 
can’t tell you where to put them ; every thing is 
crowded already. We shall have to find another 
table. Felicie ! ” 

A coquettish little head and French cap ap- 
peared at the call. 

“ Oui, madame.” 

“ Trouvez la petite table dans ma — ma — 
pshaw ! You tell her, Meta, please. The ta- 
ble in my bedroom.” 

“ Cherchez la petite table dans la chambre de 
madame,” explained the bride. 

]0 


146 


METALS WEDDING. 


“ Ah ! oui, mademoiselle.” 

“ Another ring ! ” cried Meta, flying to the 
stair-head. 

“ I never did see any thing like it ! ” declared 
Mrs. Ashley, in a tone of gentle languor. She 
was a little weary of saying the same thing for an 
hour and a half. 

“ Dear me ! ” declared Meta from the hall. 
“It isn’t a present at all. It’s some visitor. I 
hope James knows his orders, mamma.” And 
she whispered, rather loudly, “Engaged, James.” 
Then, her tone changing, she called out, “Why, 
it’s Daisy ! Mamma, it’s Daisy ! Come right up- 
stairs, dear.” 

“ Meta’s cousin, from Ashurst,” explained Mrs. 
Grinnell ; “ the third bridemaid, you know. She’s a 
sweet little thing. Not much style, of course ; but 
Meta is very fond of her, and her mother was my 
sister Margaret, — my favorite sister. Meta and 
Daisy are both named for her, only the nicknames 
prevent confusion. She is engaged too ; just en- 
gaged to a Mr. Thorne, of Boston, — an excellent 
match, I am told ; and I- expect it will be very in- 
teresting to hear the two exchange confidences. 


METALS WEDDING. 1 47 

They haven’t met before since Meta’s affair took 
place.” 

“Come right up, Daisy,” repeated the bride. 
But her cousin still lingered in the doorway, saying 
good-by to a gentleman who held her hand in his. 

“ Might I come this evening, do you think ? ” 
he said. 

“I- don’t know the state of affairs yet; but I 
should think there must be some corner — Yes, 
come, John. If I find it puts anybody out. I’ll 
say so frankly.” 

“ Thanks, love.” The fingers were . released 
with a long pressure, the door closed, and Daisy 
bounded upstairs. 

“That was Mr. Thorne, wasn’t it?” asked 
Meta, as she kissed her cousin. “I’d no idea 
he was there, or I shouldn’t have called out so. 
He’s distingu'e looking, isn’t he ? ” 

“I — don’t — know,” said Daisy, with a pretty 
blush. But she said no more. “John” was 
a sacred subject still to her innocent heart. 
She had no notion of discussing him with any- 
body. 

Her aunt rustled forward to receive her. “ Why, 


148 


META'S WEDDING. 


Daisy, how well you look ! What a color, — what 
eyes ! Well, it won’t last ; but I wish you could 
lend Meta half your roses for to-morrow.” 

“ I’m perfectly well, thank you, aunty. But 
why can’t it last ? ” 

“ Oh, engaged girls always get thin, you know. 
I only wonder you’ve kept your looks till now. 
It’s two months, isn’t it ? We expected to see you 
as thin as Meta.” 

“ As thin as Meta ! ” Daisy scanned the pale lit- 
tle face beside her with inward dismay. Was lov- 
ing John to make her fade away like that? Two 
months, indeed, — those happy, happy months ! 

“ She does look worn out,” was her outward 
comment. “Why, Meta darling, you never told 
me you had been ill.” 

“ Oh, she hasn’t,” explained her mother. “ It’s 
perfectly natural, I’m sure. They all do so. There 
hasn’t been a bride this winter with an ounce of 
flesh on her bones. All as thin as rails, — as 
rails ” (emphatically). “ I only wonder girls sur- 
vive their weddings at all. What with the shop- 
ping, and giving orders, and excitement, and 
all — ” and she heaved a sigh, half of regret and 


METALS WEDDING. 


149 


half of triumph ; for, though it was sad to see a 
daughter reduced to a skeleton, it could not be all 
painful when the process was accomplished by 
such splendid means. 

“ Never mind my looks,” interposed Meta. 
“Come and see my presents instead, which are 
much more to the purpose.” And she led the 
way into Vanity Fair. “ Look, Daisy ! ” And 
from tea-pots to pocket-handkerchiefs was poor 
Daisy hurried, and from wedding gifts to trous- 
seau ; until two hours later she found herself, her 
bonnet still on her head, a bed full of finery be- 
fore her, Meta feverishly descanting thereupon, 
and herself too weary and confused to tell the all- 
important difference between Cluny and Valenci- 
ennes, Mechlin and point. 

“ Oh, don’t show me any more ! ” she ex- 
claimed, throwing herself back in her chair. 
“ Come and sit down, Meta — how tired you 
look ! — and tell me about yourself., and about 
Fred. You see ” (blushing a little) “ I count 
him as a cousin already, though I have never 
seen him.” 

“ Fred,” repeated Meta, absently and without a 


META WEDDING. 


ISO 

bit of a blush ; “ there’s nothing in particular to 
be told about Fred. You’ll see him to-night. Ma 
said he might come to dinner and see the presents, 
as we had got to rehearse ; otherwise she shouldn’t 
have allowed it at all. Men are so in the way on 
such occasions, she says.” 

“ But he is nice ? You like him very much ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Meta, crumpling a lace frill in 
her fingers ; “ he’s very nice. Half the girls in 
town would have been glad to tear my eyes out 
when the engagement was announced. There’s 
the bell again, I declare ! ” And off she flew, 
while Daisy, with a sigh, closed her eyes and 
lay back in the chair, her mind as tired as 
her body. She had never been at a wedding be- 
fore, this unsophisticated little maiden, and some- 
how her sense of fitness had received a shock. 

She recalled Meta’s letters at the time of the 
engagement. How differently they had sounded ! 
Meta, in fact, had been different. As far as her 
feeble nature would permit such a thing, she had 
fallen in love. For some days a pulsation from 
the great universal thrill had stirred her blood. 
She was happier than ever before in her life. 


METALS WEDDING. 


151 

The light that never yet, on sea or shore,” failed 
to cast its gleam on the truly loving, irradiated 
her. But this new joy soon died away, — eclipsed, 
rather than extinguished, in the joy of her new 
clothes and new honors. Like the war-horse, who 
says “ ha ! ha ! ” when he scents the battle, did 
Mrs. Grinnell rise to the occasion. The lover dis- 
appeared in the wedding. Dress-makers claimed 
their victim. What with lingerie and lace, silk 
and velvet, dentists to be visited, milliners pro- 
pitiated, and shopping, shopping, shopping, poor 
Fred’s star vanished below the horizon. Meta 
was utterly engrossed. Her daylight hours were 
inaccessible ; evening found her on the sofa, too 
weary and languid to do more than smile in re- 
sponse to his love-making. Did he propose a 
drive or a stroll, she was too tired ; or she had got 
to try on something, or mamma thought she must 
save herself for to-morrow, when they must go 
all over town. Fred grumbled a little, but the 
state of things did not strike him as unusual. His 
sisters had behaved in the same way. As for 
Meta’s looks, even when Dr. Green was called in 
to prescribe tonics, and Madame Borione began to 


152 


META'S WEDDING. 


hint darkly at a high corsage, neither he nor any- 
body else felt alarm. Brides were always thin. 
Fred himself had “stood up” with half-a-dozen 
dreadfully skinny ones in the capacity of grooms- 
man, and knew that it was customary. After the 
wedding he should have his Meta again, — the 
pretty, merry creature who had fascinated him, — 
and all would go right, and they should be happy 
like the rest of the world. Meantime — 

Meantime neither he nor Meta dreamed of all 
that, in the midst of this hurry and bewilderment, 
was lost to them for ever. All those “ dewy eves, 
delicious eves,” those fragrant noons, those 
mornings full of song and scent, the happy 
chats, the tender silences, the thousand invisible 
links between heart and heart which should have 
been theirs, had missed them, and they knew it 
not. The spring-time of their love was over, un- 
heeded and unknown. If a sense of this visited 
Fred, he shrugged his shoulders. “ Engagements 
were never satisfactory times,” people said. It 
did not occur to him to ask “ Why not ? ” The 
heavy wheel of fashionable routine rolled on and 
crushed the violets that were ready to bloom in 


METALS WEDDING. 1 53 

his path, and he made no complaint. Juggernaut 
is best confronted in ignorance. 

“ Another tea-set ! ” cried Meta, as she came 
back, and dropped into her chair. “I didn’t 
bring it, because it was just like all the others, 
and I am so tired ! ” 

Her lips were actually white. Daisy was 
frightened. 

“ Oh, it’s nothing ! ” she gasped. “ I’ve been 
on my feet all day, that’s all. You can’t think 
how the soles burn, like fire ; and my back aches 
dreadfully.” 

“ Lie down on the sofa, and I’ll ask Felicie to 
bring a cup of tea.” 

“ Coffee, please. And, Daisy, tell her to put a 
tea-spoonful of brandy in it.” 

“ Brandy ! ” (incredulously.) 

“Yes. It’s horrid stuff; but nothing else has 
seemed to go to the spot these last few days. I 
should never have kept up in the world without it.” 

Daisy shook her head, but gave the order. Re- 
vived by the stimulant, the bride began to talk of 
dressing. 

“It’s getting dusk, I declare! You must have 


154 


METALS WEDDING. 


your hair dressed right away, for the carriages 
are coming at half-past seven, as soon as we’ve 
got through dinner.” 

“ Carriages ? ” 

“To go to the church, you know. Eva Matlock 
and Fanny Strong are to dine here, and after the 
rehearsal they are all coming back for a dance. 
I must have one last German, I told Fred.” 

“ But,” said Daisy, “ you said church. Why do 
we go to a church ? ” 

“Why, to rehearse. Don’t stare so, child. 
We have to, of course. You can’t think how 
difficult it is to get a party up one of those long 
aisles, with the girls’ trains and all. We should 
make a horrid botch of it if we didn’t practise 
first. One ^comfort is, we have got Dr. Smith’s 
church instead of ours. I told ma that I never 
would consent to be married in a church with two 
aisles. It spoils all the effect, and makes endless 
trouble. So pa spoke to Dr. Arnold, and he ar- 
ranged it with Dr. Smith, and borrowed his church 
for the evening, and Dr. Arnold is to marry us all 
the same. Isn’t it nice ? ” 

“But John — Mr. Thorne — was coming this 
evening to see me.” 


METALS WEDDING. 


155 


“Well, dear, John — Mr. Thorne — must just 
go along with us. It isn’t quite en regie to have 
anybody present except the bridal party, but he 
is a connection, we will explain. So it don’t mat- 
ter. And now do go and dress ; and, Daisy, put 
on something very pretty.” 

“ I never thought a wedding would be like 
this,” meditated Daisy, as she smoothed her 
glossy braids. “ John laughed when I said 
I should get all sorts of ideas for ours out 
of this. What will he say when he hears that 
we are going to rehearse in a church ? ” 

Poor Daisy ! She had her ideal of what a 
wedding eve ought to be. She had thought of 
it as a time of sweet and solemn preparation, 
of tender farewells, happy anticipation, of love, of 
confidence, of prayer. She had dreamed of a 
bride as a gracious presence, a creature breath- 
ing “ sweet records, — promises as sweet,” of 
a bridegroom as a youthful soldier guarding his 
armor on the eve of knighthood. All these imag- 
inings came to the ground with a thump as she 
watched the giddy party at dinner. Meta, in pink- 
and-white silk, rattling away, enjoying the jests 


156 


METALS WEDDING, 


and badinage of the others ; matter-of-fact, good- 
natured Fred ; the flippancies of the bridemaids, 
the absence of any thing like sentiment or serious- 
ness ; and with longing she anticipated the arrival 
of the only person who was likely to share her 
mood, and from whom, her heart whispered, she 
need not fear even the shadow of a disappoint- 
ment. 

He came. Aunty was wonderfully polite to 
him ; for, be it known, little Daisy was supposed 
to have been very lucky in her lover. “ Not one 
of your common Ashurst young men,” Mrs. Grin- 
nell would assert. “ Mr. Thorne is a man of fam- 
ily and fortune, a traveller too ; and they say that 
book of his is extremely clever.” It was true. 
John Thorne was a superior man. He had seen 
much of the world, but somehow had waited to 
find his fate in a quiet New England village. 
Daisy had really been in luck. So they made 
much of him, and asked him to join the party at 
church, which, urged by Daisy’s pleading eyes, he 
consented to do ; and they all set off. He smiled 
inwardly as he watched the tittering procession 
forming in the aisle, and Daisy’s startled look as 


METALS WEDDING. 


157 


she gazed into the dim, reverent shadows of the 
half-lighted building, and contrasted its quiet and 
solemnity with the business upon which they had 
come. 

Slowly they swept forward, then halted. “Now, 
remember, seven pews apart,” announced the first 
groomsman, as he measured the space with a tape 
line ] “ seven pews exactly. That keeps you off 
each other’s trains.” And now the ranks sep- 
arated, the girls defiling to the left, the young 
men to the right. 

“ Pretty well,” pronounced the authority. “You 
would better do it once more. Not quite so fast. 
Miss Strong. You must give the bride a chance to 
fall into the exact order. Now, about the kneeling. 
You must all go down at the same minute exactly. 
I’ll count for you. One, two, three — kneel ! One, 
two, three — get up ! Once more : one, two, three ! 
That’s better. You’d better keep saying it over to 
yourselves, and then you’ll keep time.” 

“ But,” whispered Daisy to Meta, “ why should 
we kneel at all, if it is only to say, ‘One, two, 
three ? ’ ” 

“Oh,” said Meta, indifferently, “it’s only a 


158 


META'S WEDDING. 


form, you know. It would be very awkward if 
they didn’t keep together.” 

Quite pale, Daisy clutched John’s arm as they 
went out into the darkness. “ It was horrid,” she 
whispered. “ Meta says everybody has to do so. 
Do they, John ?s Must we ? ” 

“ God forbid ! ” replied John. 

Such a day as was the next ! From its dawning 
to its close, noise, worry, and confusion possessed 
the premises. What with confectioners’ men and 
hair-dressers’ men, florists’ men and lamp-hang- 
ing men, milliners’ girls and dressmakers’ women, 
gifts, messages, notes, — not a soul in the house 
had one quiet moment, except the simple-hearted 
country girl, who stole half an hour for her cus- 
tomary Bible-reading. “ Dear Meta,” thought she, 
lovingly, as she closed the book, “ she is not her- 
self. Her true wedding will come some other day, 
when this noise and turmoil is over.” It was all 
that her best friend could hope. What with fatigue, 
vanity, and excitement, the poor little thing was a 
piteous sight to look upon. All Madame Bori- 
one’s artifices could not disguise her pallor or the 
ghastly circles about her eyes, to which satin and 


METALS WEDDING. 


159 


lace afforded an unbecoming contrast. For the 
rest, the pageant was like a hundred others, — gor- 
geous, graceful, unmeaning. The long train swept 
and rustled magnificently up the borrowed aisle. 
The two mammas stood in purple and point; 
flowers crowned the sacred desk before which 
bent the kneeling figures (“so affecting that 
is always,” people whispered, unconscious that 
“one, two, three” was the orison in process of 
being offered) ; the kiss, the lifted veil, — all the 
symbolic formula was duly gone through with, 
Meta Grinnell was the wife of Fred Strong ; and 
her friends, as they absorbed the luxurious ban- 
quet provided to grace the occasion, unanimously 
agreed that nothing had ever gone off better, — it 
was a “ beautiful wedding.” Whether Fred him- 
self would have coincided with them a little later 
is questionable, for Meta was so worn out that 
she cried incessantly all through her wedding 
tour ; and what should have been the very heyday 
and spring-time of their lives proved instead a 
miserable fortnight, full of anxieties which the 
young husband hardly knew how to encounter. 

Meantime, the guests having departed, Daisy 
sat down for a cosey talk with her John. 


l6o METALS WEDDING. 

It was all very sad, somehow,” she is saying ; 
and I don’t exactly know why, for the day has 
been lovely, and I never saw such beautiful things 
as Meta had. Why was it, John? Was it be- 
cause she looked so ill ? I never felt so low- 
spirited in my life.” 

“It was the sight of a dead body,” answered 
John, gravely. 

“ What t/o you mean ? ” 

“Just what I say, love. We have had all of a 
wedding except its soul. Divorce soul from body, 
and the thing that remains, however splendidly 
dressed, is sad to look upon.” 

“ But Meta loves Fred, I think, — at least she 
did at first.” 

“ She has had no time since, I suppose. Poor 
girl, ■ — her heart may wake up and get from under 
this weight by-and-by; but meantime she has 
missed a great deal of happiness. Oh, these fash- 
ionable brides ! ” groaned John, viciously. “ Shall 
I tell you what they make me think of ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Of the Indian widows who perform suttee. 
Very few of the poor creatures would ever go 


META’S WEDDING. 


i6l 


through the ceremony, if it were not for the 
priests, who dress them magnificently, load them 
with beads and trinkets, and drug them with a 
drink called ‘ bhang,’ which at once stupefies and 
intoxicates them. Now, all these profuse prepa- 
rations, this purple and fine linen, and show and 
expense, operate on our girls like the dose of 
‘bhang,’ — they meet their fate as unconsciously 
and excitedly as any suttee of them all, and 
lose more ; for the drug in the one case deadens 
pain, in the other only thought. Daisy, my Daisy, 
I have a thing to say to you.” 

“ Say it, dear John.” 

“Don’t make our wedding a crisis of clothes. 
Let us show other people what a true marriage is. 
I don’t want those dear dimpled cheeks to grow 
wan, and those honest blue eyes heavy, in slaving 
to afford my wife a few more embroidered petti- 
coats and folderols. I want the whole of you, my 
Daisy, — your happy spirits, your free soul. I 
want all the sunsets and moonrises of this sum- 
mer, all the flowers and sunshine. I want to 
stand on our wedding-eve true lovers, — happy 
man and happy woman, — and feel that it is with 
11 


i 62 


METALS WEDDING. 


fresh, unwearied soul that you give yourself to me, 
as I to you. Will you grant me this, my love ? ” 

“But, John,” said Daisy, solemnly, “clothes are 
very necessary things.” 

“ That they are,” responded John, with a hearty 
laugh. “ And so are some other commodities ; 
though it is not the fashion to think it, apparently. 
Have clothes, by all means, my dear ; and look as 
lovely in them as a May rose ; but have no more 
than can be obtained without sacrificing one par- 
ticle of health or one moment of enjoyment, — or 
me. Trust me for thinking mine the fairest lady 
in the land in any raiment.” 

So it was a bargain. What a happy, happy 
summer that was ! Temptation assailed her now 
and then. Aunt Grinnell sent new patterns, or 
papa produced a fresh check ; but Daisy looked 
out on the dewy fields, saw John coming through 
the nodding roses, and was resolutely true to her 
word. And when, one serene evening in early 
autumn, she knelt, in her simple white dress, to 
receive the blessing of the old pastor who had bap- 
tized her infancy, her whole face and figure were 
instinct with happiness ; so deep, so true, that it 


META’S WEDDING. 


163 


transfigured every line and spoke in every move- 
ment. As a flower, ripened and perfected by sun 
and dew, opens at last every fragrant petal to the 
day, her nature, baptized by that long surhmer of 
tranquil bliss, assumed its womanhood. To John 
Thorne’s keeping no thoughtless, irresponsible 
creature intrusted her future. With maiden pride 
she vowed herself away, and John’s eyes made 
answer that his deepest nature was stirred ; and, 
in becoming a true husband, he was for evermore 
a truer man. 

“ After all,” said pale little Mrs. Strong, as they 
drove back to the depot, “ I think that kind of 
wedding is the nicest. No fuss at all, you know, 
or bridemaids, or any thing. Why, Fred, Daisy 
was out all yesterday afternoon with John, driving 
up the loveliest mountain-road they have discov- 
ered j and this morning, when I went into her 
room, she sat reading, as calm and sweet as a 
white lily. How happy, happy she looked ! I 
almost wish ours were to do over again. We 
would have it different, wouldn’t we ? ” 

“Ah, wouldn’t we?” said Fred Strong. 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


Sylvia Dare had come back. -This piece of 
news, whispered from one to another, was enough 
to set all the caps in Baybrook nodding, and to 
stir the village into a ripple of unusual excite- 
ment. 

I wish I could make you see Baybrook as it 
stood that day knee-deep in fallen yellow leaves, 
and rimmed by mountain ranges of pale blue 
which seemed melting into the pale November 
sky. Hush was the predominant character of the 
place. The bare and songless woods into which 
the long street plunged at either end, where it 
sought the open country, were no stiller than the 
village at its busiest centre. There was absolutely 
no sound in the air, no voices, no hammers, no stir 
of occupation, only the cawing of crows in the 
fields, and one faint shriek from a distant locomo- 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


165 


live ten miles away. The closely-shuttered houses 
looked dumb and lifeless. There was life enough 
going on in back regions, — life, and hard do- 
mestic trial, — but it was not visible to the road. 
The men of the place, gathered in the customary 
circle about the post-office store, conversed, if at 
all, in low husky tones, varying their talk with the 
life and interest of frequent expectoration. The 
sidewalk was deserted. Once or twice in the 
course of the morning a woman with fluttering 
garments passed along, or dodged into this door 
or that ; but her presence brought no relief to the 
prevailing sense of lifelessness, or broke it only 
with that slight surprise which we experience when 
some bird, a robin or belated woodpecker, brushes 
by us in the wintry woods. 

But for all this peaceful exterior, Baybrook did 
not lack its gossips. In the remote kitchens, 
where so much unseen business was daily done, 
great interchange of neighborly chat was going on. 
At Mis’ Wilder’s, for instance, old Mis’ Philbrick 
had run over “ ’ cross lots ” to interview a crony on 
the topic of the day ; and Mis’ Wilder, taking out 
her knitting and banishing “ the girls ”• for some 


BAYBERRY BROOK, 


1 66 

clumsily contrived errand to the buttery, had fairly 
settled down for enjoyment, — while Hepsy and 
Pris, indignant at being sent off, and on very tip- 
toe of curiosity, were doing their little all to over- 
hear through the chink of the door. 

“ Who’s Sylvia Dare ? ” asked Pris, catching 
the name amid the tantalizing hum, hum, hum of 
the low voices. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Hepsy, with wide-open 
eyes. “ Somebody awful, I guess.” 

Poor Sylvia ! It was not so very long — ten or 
twelve years at utmost — since she left her native 
village, and already her name was a strange one 
in the ears of the generation who had usurped her 
place. She wasn’t “somebody awful ” then. The 
elders remembered her, — a wilful, beautiful girl, 
carrying all before her with the insolence of youth 
and vanity, flirting now with this young man, now 
with that, and breaking more than one heart. 
They recollected the time of her brief engagement 
to Phil Thorpe — the likeliest fellow in the county 
— and his wretched looks when, some months 
after it was all broken off, she vanished from 
home to return no more. “ Gone on a long visit 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


167 


to some friends in York,” old Miss Dare said, in 
a last effort to save her darling’s credit; but a 
year later, when she lay dying, the poor aunt con- 
fessed the truth : she did not know where Sylvia 
was, she had never known, — neither word nor 
sign had come from the child since the day she 
went away. A dark cloud of surmise rested 
thenceforward over the fate of the village beauty, 
never lifted until now, when, marvellous to relate, 
she had come back. 

“ But when did she come ? ” asked Mis’ Wilder. 

‘‘Last night,” replied Mis’ Philbrick, bringing 
her cap nearer. “ Jehiel Forbes was to the depot 
with ' his team, and he fetched her over. She 
didn’t speak, nor give no sign who she was, and 
he never mistrusted at first — she was so changed ! 
Not much of handsome Sylvie Dare left, I reckon. 
But by-and-by he asked where did she want to be 
set down ? and she says, says she, in a kind of 
hesitating voice, ‘ Is old Miss Dare alive yet ? ’ 
And then Jehiel, he said, ‘Why, no; Miss Dare 
died a long piece back, not more’n a year after 
her niece went off.’ And at that she kind of 
choked, and pulled down her veil ; and then Jehiel 


i68 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


guessed. So he didn’t say any thing more till 
they got real near the village, and then he asked 
again where would she be set down ? And at first 
she didn’t answer, and then she said : ‘ Oh, 1 
don’t know ; drive to the house where Miss Dare 
used to live. Perhaps they’ll take me in there to 
board,’ says she, and she burst right out crying. 
Jehiel says he felt real bad, and he took her there 
and fixed it all straight with Mis’ Clark, and she’s 
got the room her aunt used to have. Mis’ Clark 
don’t know yet who it is she’s got boarding with 
her. She ’n’ Mr. Clark’s pretty much strangers 
yet in these parts, you know. But I wouldn’t 
wonder if somebody was to tell her before long.” 

“Poor Sylvie! I hope not,” said the gentler 
woman. “ And Jehiel says she’s so changed ? ” 

“ He says she don’t look to him as if she was 
long for this world,” responded Mis’ Philbrick. 
“ Dreadful thin and holler, and with a cough that 
it shakes you all to pieces to hear. Poor cretur, 
as you say. Mis’ Wilder. The way of the trans- 
gressor is hard — there’s no doubt about it ! Well, 
I must be goin’.” 

“ Mother,” cried Pris and Hepsy, released at 


BA YBERRY BROOK. 169 

last from their buttery, “ who is Sylvia Dare that 
you and Mis’ Philbrick was talking about ? Do 
tell us about her.” 

“ She’s a poor child who used to live here, and 
who’s come back to die, I’m afraid,” replied the 
mother, cautiously. “ Don’t mind about her, girls, 
but come upstairs with me, and help pick over the 
carpet-rags. It’s time they was sorted out.” 

And in the excitement of matching blues and 
yellows, and arranging for black stripes and brown, 
Hepsy and Pris forgot their curiosity. But their 
mother did not forget, and prayed long and ear- 
nestly that night for the wanderer brought so 
strangely back to her home. 

Meantime Sylvia was lying in the bed where, 
as a child, she had slept beside her kind old aunt. 
The room was little changed. There was the 
old-fashioned cherry bureau, the maple wash- 
stand, the pine shelf in the corner, on which 
Miss Dare’s black-bound Bible used to lie. 
Sylvia even recognized the musty smell which 
breathed from the closet, a sort of ghostly waft 
from by-gone and traditional apparel. There was 
the wall-paper^ with its wavy pattern, which once 


1 70 BA YBERR V BROOK. 

she had loved to follow with her finger until it 
lost itself in the corner angle. There was the 
small looking-glass which had reflected a fair 
young face in those other days, not so very long 
ago j and the broken slat in the blind, not 
mended yet, through which the sun sent his 
morning greeting. His beams lay, a bright spot, 
on the same strip of faded carpet. Could they 
have been lying there all this time ? Sylvia 
thought, pursuing her recollections with languid 
interest. She felt tired, — too tired to rise. She 
would lie still for a day or two, and then she 
should be better. And she wondered if any- 
body would remember her ; would come to see 
her? — and for the first time in years a painful 
curiosity to know what had been said of her ab- 
sence awoke in her mind. Once she had not 
cared. Could it be true, what Jehiel said, that 
her aunt’s death had really had any thing to do 
with thafi And Sylvia closed her eyes, then 
opened them again, and tossed feverishly about. 

All that day and the next she lay languid and 
restless. Her landlady came now and then, 
bringing up tea and such other “ vittles ” as sag- 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


171 

gested themselves; but a sharp inquisitive manner 
had replaced the fussy good-nature of her earlier 
greeting, and Sylvia guessed that her story was 
known. Why had she come back ? she asked 
herself, in fits of miserable despondency. She 
did not know that it was but the instinct of all 
hunted and dying things, turning with desperate 
longing to the covert where their race began, 
and which to the end is home. 

The third morning was warm and sunny. A 
dreamy haze softened the mountain outline, and 
clothed the bare woods with many-hued mists. 
Sylvia felt stronger. Rising feebly, she dressed, 
and, wrapped in a shawl, sat down beside the 
open window. The pure air, the quiet and peace 
of all out-door things, the lovely pencilling of the 
elm-boughs as they fell between her eyes and 
the sky, thrilled her with vague pleasure. No- 
body seemed to be moving ; all things slept or 
appeared to sleep, though blue 'smokes curled 
from chimneys, and here and there the upper 
half of a front-door stood open to admit the air. 
How pretty, how hushed it was ; how like the 
old life, and yet how different ! By-and-by a girl 


172 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


came by, — a girl about the age of that girl who 
had passed from all these peaceful things so long 
ago. As she walked she glanced upward, and, 
catching a glimpse of Sylvia’s head against the 
side of the window, paused, stared curiously, and 
then hurried on again with a look of shy confusion. 
Sylvia shrank back. Why had she come ? she 
asked herself again. 

The next day was Sunday. A bright and fit- 
ful sun shone in at the pane, but the clouds had 
deepened on the mountains, and the wind blew 
with a keener edge. It braced Sylvia’s languid 
frame like a tonic. Looking out towards noon, 
she saw orderly groups of people passing home 
from church, and a desire to leave the house 
seized her. Perhaps she had been mistaken j 
perhaps nobody would know her after all, or, 
knowing, some kind soul might speak tenderly 
and pityingly to her. Even pity would be sweet, 
thought Sylvia in her loneliness ; and, wrapping 
herself in shawl and veil, she crept downstairs 
and into the street. 

People were not going home from church, how- 
ever. An unusual throng was pouring through 


BAYBERRV BROOK. 


173 


Squire Welch’s gate, and moving in long lines 
across the brown meadow which lay beyond. 
What could it mean? 

“ Where are the folks going ? ” asked Sylvia 
of a little boy who stood with pocketed hands 
near the gate. 

“ Down to see the baptizin’,” replied the boy. 
“ Ain’t you goin’ ? There’s ten on ’em beside 
the Elders a goin’ in. I guess the water’ll be 
pretty cold, too.” 

Some vague recollection floated through Syl- 
via’s mind, as her feet rather than her will bore 
her along in the track of the procession ; recol- 
lections of a baptizing to which she had been 
taken years before. Yes, it must have been here 
that it took place ; here, where Bayberry Brook 
— pretty Bayberry, from which the village bor- 
rowed its name — ran deepest. But at first sight 
of the stream, curving through its banks of sedge 
and golden grass, this remembrance forsook her, 
lost in a tide of other thoughts. Half her child- 
hood had been passed in this meadow, be- 
side the brook. There was the shallow where 
she and Phil built the dam. Under that bank he 


174 


BA YBERRY BROOK, 


found the lark’s nest, which he showed to her 
and kept a secret from all the other girls. Just 
there she had caught her first trout She remem- 
bered how the hook got tangled in her curls, and 
how Phil worked for half-an-hour getting it out. 
She could feel his fingers now, and see the bright 
boyish face close to her own, and feel his breath 
on her cheek. And on that tussock — stran- 
gest memory of all — they had sat that evening 
when he asked her to marry him. Poor Phil ! 
She had felt sorry about him sometimes of late 
years. She wondered if he were alive yet, — if 
he had quite got over feeling badly about her. 
But, pshaw ! of course he had. And as thus — 

“ Down the all golden water-way 
Her thoughts flew ” 

the path, pursued almost unconsciously, brought 
her to the bank where people were standing in 
silent, attentive groups. 

For a moment Sylvia shrank back. Then, 
perceiving that no one turned or seemed to 
notice her presence, she ventured to linger, even 
to press forward a little ; and soon, absorbed in 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


175 


what was going on, she forgot all else. Directly 
beneath where she stood lay the deep pool in 
which Bayberry, losing for a time its happy, rip- 
pling. murmurs, ran with placid and noiseless 
force. The farther bank was soft with tufts of 
yellow grass. There stood the choir, and even as 
she gazed the leader raised his hand and led the 
air of a wild, sweet hymn, full of that blended tri- 
umph and pathos which distinguishes the Metho- 
dist hymnal, and which seems caught from those 
early days when, on lonely hill-tops and Cornish 
moors, John Wesley stood and poured his burn- 
ing message into the ears of the common people, 
who heard him gladly. Never under gray Eng- 
lish skies did the strains ring with gladder mean- 
ing than now beneath the blue New-England 
heavens, with the distant solemn mountains look- 
ing on, and the plash and jingle of Bayberry 
Brook sounding each note like an unseen accom- 
paniment. One verse, — no more, — then a bus- 
tle and stir took place in the crowd below, and, 
slowly emerging, two figures descended the bank 
and passed into the water. 

One was the gray-haired Elder ; the other a 


176 


BA YBERRY BROOK. 


young woman, with long, streaming hair and 
black garments. Step by step they gained the 
centre of the pool, where the water was deep- 
est, and standing waist-deep paused, and turned 
so as to face the people. Sylvia bent forward. 
She heard the sacred formula pronounced, saw 
the girl’s head with its heavy tresses bend sud- 
denly backward and vanish beneath the swirling 
waves. Another moment it rose again, and drip- 
ping and gasping the girl was led by the Elder 
toward the shore, and assisted up the bank 
by her friends, while a wild strain of welcome 
rang from the choir. Another baptism followed, 
and another. Then some unusual excitement 
shook the audience, as a tall man’s figure came 
forward leading a young woman by the hand. 
Sylvia just caught sight of the girl’s face as they 
passed, — a fair, modest one, framed in light, 
braided hair ; but the Elder advanced, and, plac- 
ing himself between the two, led them into the 
brook. The words of consecration were uttered, 
the dark head and the fair vanished in turn 
beneath the water, and the forms turned again 
toward the bank, the young man holding up the 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


177 


girl with a strong arm. Her sweet, dripping face 
was quite unruffled in expression. His — Sylvia 
gasped as she gazed — wore a look of steadfast, 
honest peace, which made the strong features 
absolutely beautiful. It was Philip Thorpe, the 
lover of her youth, — no longer a boy, but a man 
every inch of him ; a man of whom a woman 
might well be proud. And just then a gust of 
wind seized and blew aside her veil, and Philip’s 
eyes, as he slowly ascended the bank, met hers, 
and he knew his lost love’s face ! 

“ How dreadful white Phil Thorpe looks, don’t 
he } ” whispered somebody near by in the crowd. 
“ I wouldn’t wonder if he’d taken his death of 
chill.” 

“ But Mary Allen don’t,” was the reply. “ She’s 
just as pretty and calm as if she hadn’t been in 
the water, at all. No wonder Phil thinks such 
a heap of her. Elder Quinn, he wanted them to 
go in separate, but Phil wouldn’t hear to it. ‘ She 
and me’s going through life together, and we’re 
going to be baptized together,’ he said. The 
Elder couldn’t do nothing with him. I don’t 
blame him one mite, for my part.” 

12 


178 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


Sylvia heard no more. The burning flush 
which had rushed into her face on meeting Phil’s 
eyes gave place to death-like pallor and a feeling 
of sickly faintness. With desperate footsteps 
she hurried back across the meadow, feeling each 
moment as if she must sink. The wild, sweet 
strain of the choir pursued her, — 

“ He will save you — 

He will save you — 

He will save you just now — 

Just now — 

He will save you just now.” 

Would He ? Oh, if He would ! 

When a girl is, in country parlance, “ sit- 
ting up with a young man,” it is desirable that 
her parents should make a practice of going to 
bed early. Farmer Allen and his dame were 
not behind-hand in this respect. They knew 
what was expected of them, and duty fortunately 
coincided with both habit and inclination. So 
by eight o’clock all was still that Sunday even- 
ing in the old homestead, except for the distant 
creak of some bedstead bending under the weight 
of a sleeper, and the crackling of the ample fire 


BAYBERRV BROOK. 


179 


upon the kitchen hearth, beside which the lovers 
sat. Philip was in the farmer’s big chair, and 
Mary on a low stool drawn up close to it. There 
were tears on her fair cheek, and Philip looked 
grave and pale as he stroked her small fingers 
in his broad palm. 

“ And so it’s been like a cloud over the day, — 
the day we said was going to be so happy, Mary. 
Not that it hasn’t been happy, dear, — I must 
take that back, — happy in some ways. But all 
the time I am seeing that face, — that poor 
changed face.” 

“ Is she good-looking still ? ” faltered Mary. 

“ No, not good-looking now. You needn’t 
worry, dear. The bright, pretty face of old times 
is all gone. Nobody will ever have to fret any 
more over Sylvia Dare’s beauty.” 

“ Oh, Phil, I’m not worrying,” said Mary, almost 
crying ; “ it’s only — only — ” 

I know, dear,” very tenderly. , “ It’s only that 
to-day, of all days, you and I were to belong en- 
tirely to each other, — and to God. And we do, 
darling. I wouldn’t go back if I could to that old 
time when Sylvie made me so miserable. This 


1 8 o BA YBERR Y BROOK. 

new time is more to me than that ; and you, my 
Mary, a thousand times dearer than ever she was. 
But some men can’t ever forget the past, or lay it 
aside, or bury it away out of sight ; and I am one 
of them. My love for Sylvia Dare died long ago. 
I wouldn’t dig it up again if I could by saying the 
word. But when I saw her face to-day, so un- 
happy, dear, so changed, I forgot all that has 
come between — all her wrong and my anger — 
and saw only the little Sylvia who used to be my 
sweetheart at school, and play with me beside 
Bayberry Brook. Don’t be angry with me, dar- 
ling; but help me to think what we can do for 
poor Sylvie.” 

“ Angry, Phil,” — kissing him, — “ why, how 
could I ? I love you all the more for being so 
tender-hearted — just like a woman, dear — for 
all you’re so big and strong. But what can we do ? ” 

“ I am trying to think, darling. If you were my 
wife, it would be easy. We would go together to 
Sylvie, and comfort her together. But it won’t do 
for me to go now ; and if you made friends with 
her, people would talk so. Even your ” — 

“ But Phil,” cried true-hearted Mary, why need 


BA YBERR Y BROOK, 1 8 1 

we mind people’s talking, if what we do is right ? 
Tell me that you wish me to go, and I’ll go to- 
morrow. Or you needn’t tell me ; I’ll go any way, 
because I want to go. And, dear,” the sweet face 
grew tender, “you know we said that we would 
try to look out for something good to do, — some- 
thing we could help or give to in memory of this 
day, when we professed church-membership to- 
gether. Perhaps this is the very work. Perhaps 
He has sent this poor thing specially to us ; who 
knows, Phil ? ” 

While thus tender souls took counsel over her 
fate, Sylvia stood alone beside Bayberry Brook. 
A weary feverish afternoon had bred within her 
such restless disquiet and impatience of the con- 
fined air of her room, that, haunted with the long- 
ing to escape, she had risen from her bed about 
nine o’clock in the evening, and, wrapped in a 
shawl, had crept unperceived from the house. 

The night was wild and gusty. It had rained 
heavily over the mountains all day, and masses of 
heavy cloud, driven by the wind, were now scud- 
ding across the sky, catching up in their folds and 
then releasing the moon, which here and there 


i 82 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


gleamed out with fitful splendor. A boding moan 
came on the breeze, significant of coming storm. 
It fell like some awful, tortured human voice 
upon the ears of the half-delirious girl, as with 
rapid steps she passed along the meadow-path, 
now silent and deserted. Gaining at last the 
bank where in the morning she had stood, she 
paused and bent over the water with clasped 
hands, weeping and talking to herself. 

“ Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful world it is ! 
she sobbed ; “ I didn’t know how dreadful till I 
came back here. That girl’s face ! Did my face 
ever look like that ? — so happy and quiet ! I 
had forgotten girls could look so. How Phil 
changed when he saw me ! He turned white, 
and his eyes stared as if I was something awful. 
And I am ! I am a ghost ! — the ghost of little 
Sylvia Dare, who used to play beside Bayberry 
Brook. Oh, if I could only go back and be her, — 
go back to the time when I went to school across 
this meadow, and Aunt Orphah used to call me 
a ‘good child!’ Good! Ah, no! Nobody will 
ever say that to me again. 

“ If there was only some way of going back — 


BA YBERR V BROOK, 1 8 3 

going back ! Some way to get rid of the burden 
of one’s self ! What did that hymn say, — 

“ ‘ He will save you just now ’ ? 

Not me ! That couldn’t mean me ! I wish it did. 
I wish the Elder would take hold of my hand and 
lead me in and dip me under, as he did this morn- 
ing, and say those words, and all these wretched 
years could slip off and float away, and I could 
rise up again washed clean, with a face like that 
girl’s, and walk out and begin over ! Oh dear ! 
That would be good ! ” 

She filled her hands with the water and poured 
it over her burning head. “That is nice,” she 
said, — “ nice and cool. Perhaps, if I went in 
and stood just there where Phil stood this morn- 
ing, I should be cool all through, and this pain 
would go away. I’ll leave my shawl here, though, 
to keep dry till I come out.” 

She threw the shawl upon the ground and waded 
in. The stream had risen since morning, fed by 
the mountain rains, but she never heeded the ad- 
ded depth. Intent upon reaching the middle of 
the pool, where the morning’s baptism had taken 


184 


BAYBERRY BROOK. 


place, she hurried forward. Now the water was 
at her waist, — now above her breast. A hasty 
slip, — her footing gave way, — the water was 
over her head. Instinctively she struggled, for 
one moment grasped the air, — then a sudden 
gladness possessed her: “Just now,” she mur- 
mured, with a wild smile on her white face, — then 
gave herself to the stream and sank. The moon 
plunged into sudden eclipse of cloud ; the wind 
sounded with drearier moan, — then, ere the 
ripples of Sylvia’s passage had • ceased in the 
brook, the silvery radiance again streamed forth 
and lit the eddying circles. The breeze died 
into stillness, and hush and night possessed the 
place. 

They found her in the morning. The stream 
had floated her down a little way to where a tiny 
cape of yellow grasses arrested its flow, — and 
there, half in, half out of the water, she lay pil- 
lowed on the slope. The brown waves played 
lightly with her garments, and lapped and caressed 
her form as a mother caresses her child. A smile 
of perfect peace rested on her lips. She looked 
fair and young and innocent again : the deep bap- 


BA YBERR Y BROOK. 1 8 5 

tism of Death had washed away all stain of life’s 
anguish, and she seemed as one fallen asleep. 

“ She looks dreadful happy, don’t she ? ” said 
old Mis’ Philbrick. 

But Philip and Mary were heavy at heart. “We 
were going to help her, — we were going to be so 
good to her on the morrow,” they said to each 
other j “ if she had only known, — if she only had 
lived one day longer ! ” 

In the meadow, not far from the water’s edge, 
they made Sylvia’s grave. Rough hands laid her 
to rest, and smoothed the brown sods over her ; 
and many kind words were spoken, and no harsh 
•ones, for the village folk were not ungentle at 
heart. The murmur of Bayberry sounds for ever 
past her bed, and Philip’s little children come 
sometimes to put daisies and pink mallow-buds on 
the mound. And sometimes, though rarely, Philip 
comes himself, and stands and thinks, and stoops 
to brush a stick or a dead leaf from the grass. 
The blue sky arches her in, the curving mountain- 
chain encircles her, — and so Sylvia rests. 


ANGELUS. 


Softly drops the crimson sun : 

Softly down from over head 
Drop the bell-notes, one by one, 
Melting in the melting red ; 

Sign to Angel bands unsleeping, — 

“ Day is done, the dark is dread, 
Take the world in care and keeping. 

“ Set the white-robed sentries close, 
Wrap our want and weariness 
In the surety of repose ; 

Let the shining presences. 

Bearing fragrance on their wings. 

Stand about our beds to bless. 

Fright away all evil things. 

“ Rays of Him whose shadow pours 
Through sad lives a brimming glory, 
Float o’er darkling woods and moors. 
Float above the billows hoary : 

Shine through night and storm and sin, 
Tangled fate and bitter story. 

Guide the lost and wandering in ! ” 


ANGELUS. 


i87 


Now the last red ray is gone, 

Now the twilight shadows hie ; 
Still the bell notes, one by one. 
Send their soft voice to the sky, 
Praying, as with human lip, 

“ Angels hasten, night is nigh, 
Take us to thy guardianship.” 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


“ Now, Mis’ Wilder, ’bout them chickens ? ” 
“Just let me knit to the middle of my needle, 
Draxy.” 

Draxy waited, her busy hands finding some- 
thing to do in the little pause. The things on 
the table were straightened, the daguerreotypes 
(it was the best room) tilted more accurately on 
their open covers, a minute speck of dust dis- 
lodged from the mantle-piece, — all before the 
gentle “ click, click ” of the needles ceased, and 
Mrs. Wilder laid down her stocking. 

“ The chickens, — let me see. It was those six 
little broils of the speckled hen’s I was a-thinking 
of, and the pepper-and-salt roasters.” (Mrs. Wil- 
der viewed chickens from a purely practical stand- 
point.) “ That’ll be enough, won’t it ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” — doubtfully, — “ folks eat a 
heap at camp-meetin’.” 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 189 


“ So they do. Well, then, kill three of the 
black Polands, and bake a pie. That’ll make a 
plenty.” 

“ I guess so.” Business thus disposed of, Draxy 
assumed a chair and waxed confidential. 

“ How many of our folks is a-goin’, Mis’ 
Wilder?” 

“ You and me, and Mr. Wilder and Nathan and 
Ellen, — that’s five ; and Lucy’s six.” 

“ Lucy ! ” 

“Yes. Mr. Wilder said he guessed she’d 
better, and Brother Parker pled hard about it. 
He thinks she’s old enough to get religion, and 
ought to have it ; and her pa says there’s no harm 
tryin’, only he won’t have her flustered. I don’t 
know what to say ’bout it myself, but I guess 
pa’s right.” And Mrs. Wilder ended with a little 
sigh. 

“ Mr. Parker ! ” There was a concentrated 
and conspicuous sniff in Draxy’s voice. She 
said no more, and in another minute got up and 
left the room, her errand accomplished. There 
were few waste places in Draxy’s life. Satan 
might have dodged round her for months, without 


1 90 A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


finding one idle chink in which to practise his 
nefarious arts. 

Pretty soon the door opened and Lucy came 
in, — a girl of seventeen, with the shy beauty of a 
wild doe in her hazel eyes. The delicate cameo- 
like outline of her face was full of an expression 
of appeal. Not that there was any thing to ap- 
peal against in her life, the petted only daughter 
of this honest home.' Some women possess that 
look naturally, and before it, when combined 
with youth and loveliness, the hearts of men go 
down like ninepins. Lucy as yet knew not the 
value of her dower, but such knowledge never 
lingers long. 

“ Where have you been, dear ? ” 

“ Over to Esther’s, mother. They’re begin- 
ning the camp-meeting cake, and I stayed to help 
beat eggs.” 

“ Do tell ! I suppose they’re making a great 
fuss, like all the rest of the folks ? ” 

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Robbins has killed a turkey 
and eight pairs of chickens, and had two pieces 
of beef boiled ; and Esther and Hepsy were mak- 
ing gingerbread, and raised cake, and all sorts 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. IQI 

of pies that you can think of, — mince and apple 
and custard and Canada-plum, — I can’t remem- 
ber half.” 

“ Land’s sake ! And who’s going, Lucy ? ” 

“ Mrs. Robbins and the squire and the girls, 
and James and his wife, and Aunt Mirey, and” 
— here the happy, girlish voice sank a little, 
just a little ; only a close observer would have 
noticed the inflection — “ and Kane.” 

“ Elkanah .? I want to know ! Well, it’s time 
he got hold of something good. You’ll have to 
help Draxy make our pies to-morrow, dear. 
The weather’s splendid. I guess we’re going 
to have a good week.” 

This camp-meeting, about which all Ammonoo- 
suc was in a stir, was a yearly affair, planned for 
and anticipated with eager and invariable pleas- 
ure. After the heat of the summer and the toil 
of the harvest, when the hay was in, the potatoes 
stored, the corn and corn-shucks safely housed, — 
when the rye and wheat had gone to the mill, 
and the “ boarders ” to their city homes, — came, 
in the beautiful September weather, this holiday ; 
which, half a picnic, half a religious exercise, 


192 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


brought neighbors together, brightened the links 
of church-brotherhood and old friendships, and 
gave to soul and body alike refreshment. But 
oh ! what a different thing it was to the different 
people who were looking forward to it ! 

Mrs. Wilder, and other good matrons of her 
stamp, viewed it as a species of sober jollification, 
combining much good cheer with some comfort- 
able preaching and praying. A time, too, for 
the exhibition of notable housekeeping, — of pie- 
crust and fatted fowls, which, duly partaken of, 
might impart to the occasion a certain toothsome 
solemnity. 

Brother Parker, of the Pemigewasset Confer- 
ence, on the contrary, regarded it as a crucible in 
which souls should be melted and changed, — 
a four days’ opportunity, during which the doors 
of heaven should stand open for whomsoever 
knocked thereat. In his thoughts he saw them 
enter, souls stained and shrunken with sin, souls 
pure and spotless as Lucy Wilder’s, — for Brother 
Parker thought much of Lucy’s soul. Had it 
been contained in a body less fair, it had per- 
chance occupied less of his attention ; but he 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


193 


was a man, though a good one, and having twice 
tasted the sweetness of married life was natu- 
rally ready to try it again. Only, — here he was 
firm, — a minister’s wife must be known to be of 
one mind with himself. She must belong to his 
church ; and no temptation should induce him to 
lay such a snare and scandal in the path of his 
people, as to marry a woman without religion. 
So Brother Parker looked forward eagerly to the 
coming week. 

Elkanah Robbins was equally eager. A strong, 
brown, handsome fellow. He had been a wild 
boy, but of late had grown so steady and so atten- 
tive to his farm that folks said, “ Kane must be 
thinking of settlin’;” only where, or with whom, 
nobody knew. 

To Lucy and other girls the camp-meeting was 
invested with a delightful vagueness, in which 
merry meals, rustling tree-boughs, sleeping under 
canvas, whispers, laughter, “ good times ” gen- 
erally, mingled. In more than one young heart 
another and more secret element of bliss was con- 
sciously or unconsciously recognized. In Lucy’s 
it was — Kane. 


13 


194 A CAMP-MEET/NG IDYL. 


The brown, fearless boy and the fair girl had 
grown up together as playmates till that dark day 
when, “ for his badness,” the neighbors said, Kane 
was sent away to Uncle Elkanah’s, at Swift Water, 
for a year, which year had lengthened into five. 
It was three now since he came back, — tall, 
bronzed, strange, yet familiar ; and during those 
three years womanhood had crept unaware over 
the little maid who had shared his baby sports. 
Playmate no longer, Lucy was very shy ; but in 
her secret heart she was proud of him, — proud 
of the strength that could heave the heavy timber 
up which her brother Nathan avoided, of the skill 
that could tame the wildest colt. She was sure 
he would always be good hereafter. The four 
days’ dwelling in a grove with him was a delight 
so great that it almost frightened her. 

So the day came. All Monday the committees 
were at work arranging the tents, in the form of a 
hollow square, beneath the shelter of the trees. 
A bright little stream curved around two sides of 
the encampment. In its centre arose a covered 
platform, to which was affixed a derrick painted 
pea-green, whose top supported a sharp-toned 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


195 


iron bell. Ranks of rough benches confronted 
this stand, in the midst of which, and directly un- 
der the platform, was a small benched inclosure 
for the use of the “ anxious,” who were expected 
to resort thither at the close of every service to 
listen to the prayers and appeals of the brethren. 
Nor was the carnal man forgotten. Besides the 
eating saloon, open to all, each tent bore a long 
table, duly spread three times a day with amplest 
provision. These tents represented each a village, 
and sheltered by night and by day a whole neigh- 
borhood. The name of the place — “ Pemigewas- 
set,” “ Stowe,” “ Lacon ” — was lettered upon the 
front, accompanied by some floral device or text 
of Scripture. Upon the Ammonoosuc tent was the 
inappropriate recommendation to “ Watch and 
Pray,” around which, by way of antidote, a wreath 
of flowery hops was garlanded. The space within 
was gorgeous in its appointments, and boasted, 
besides a small bookcase of religious reading, a 
round table with a red cover, which supported 
a huge nosegay of flowers, and gave the whole 
a “ tasty effect,” as Mrs. Wilder exultingly re- 
marked to Mrs. Robbins, equalled by none of the 


196 A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


others, — of which effect Ammonoosuc was justly 
proud. And so the camp-meeting began fairly. 

All day Tuesday, people were pouring in. Each 
one-seated wagon brought three and a baby ; each 
two-seated, five and two babies. By night hun- 
dreds were assembled. The moon was brilliantly 
full, and the singing and prayer meeting which in- 
augurated the assembly so spirited and satisfac- 
tory, that Brother Little rubbed his hands and re- 
marked to Brother Smith that he’d been to forty 
camps in his time, but in his opinion this was go- 
ing to be the greatest yet. 

‘‘ How funny ! ” whispered Hepsy Robbins, 
as they watched the bustle inside the tent. 
“ See, Lucy, the beds this side are for us, and 
that side for the men-folks. Don’t it look 
queer ? ” 

“ But who sleep on the table ? ” laughed Lucy, 
as a row of rustling mattresses was lifted up. 

“Don’t you know? Why, the elders and dea- 
cons, of course. That’s to keep people in order, 
and stop any skylarking and frolicking among us 
young ones. Say, Lucy, which bed will you have ? 
Here, take this one next to mine.” 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 1 97 


“Lucy,” called her mother; and she whispered, 
“here’s your place, next to me. I don’t want you 
down there with those girls, for you’ll talk and 
chatter all night, and not be fit for a thing in the 
morning. Just slip off your frock there, behind 
the curtain, and put on your double-gown, and I’ll 
fix you.” 

So, like Christabel, “ her gentle limbs she did 
undress,” so far as gown and hoop went: and 
pretty soon, in her neat gray wrapper, she was 
lying comfortably tucked up in the bed her pru- 
dent mother had provided with pillow and quilt. 
Sweet, musty smells filled the air from the hay- 
covered floor. The straggling moon-rays, the 
flapping curtain, the chewing and champing of the 
horses tethered close by, — all was odd and novel. 
She could not sleep. By-and-by the men came in, 
spread their quilts and blankets, and subsided 
into repose. Good Elder Ada,ms occupied the 
end of the table nearest to Lucy’s couch. His 
righteous slumbers quickly became audible, and, 
peeping round to look at him, Lucy saw a pair of 
eyes intently fixed upon her. A strange thrill 
came over her brain as she met them. Only the 


193 A CAMP-MEETJNG IDYL. 


width of the narrow table and the elder’s boots 
separated her from Kane ! She blushed uncom- 
fortably, and dropped her eyelids not to open 
them again ; but, for long after, fairy lights and 
visions seemed to dance before her and trouble 
her repose. 

At dawn the camp awoke. Small chance was 
there for late sleeping. Thin blue smoke began 
to curl from early fires. Horses whinnied for 
their corn. Impatient hands waited to pack away 
the beds, and restore the tents to daytime order. 
By eight o’clock breakfast was eaten and dishes 
washed y and white-haired Elder Adams took his 
place, Bible in hand, at the head of the long table, 
to lead in prayer. Lucy sat just without the door. 
The stillness, the beautiful peace of the new-born 
day, seemed reflected in her face. One golden 
beech leaf fluttered down, and lay upon her fair 
braids. Kane wasn’t given to poetry, but some- 
how a line came into his head as he looked : — 

“ Oh, my Love is like the morning ! ” 

He had read it somewhere and he thought it was 
true — about Lucy. 


A CAMP-MEET/NG IDYL. 


199 


At ten o’clock the clanging bell announced 
general service, and the crowd assembled. Truth 
to tell, it was not a picturesque crowd. The 
American of the rural districts is rarely a hand- 
some animal. He is lean. He is brown. He 
loses his teeth early. Hard work and soda soon 
transform the loveliness of youth into pallor and 
sharp outline. Saleratus claims its own. Here 
and there one sees a sweet young face, or an old 
one with fine, strong lines deep-cut and inscruta- 
ble, like a carving in stone ; but personal beauty 
is the exception. Beauty apart, however, we may 
be proud of our multitudes. For decorum, for 
good-humor, for general neatness of appearance, 
for civility to strangers, for a sense of propriety 
which almost ranks as dignity, it would be hard to 
find their parallel in any other country. At this 
Cadiz camp-meeting even the babies caught the 
spirit of the occasion, and sucked their thumbs 
contentedly throughout the service without a cry. 
Thirteen ministers occupied the platform. With 
able generalship the lesser lights were first brought 
forward, leaving the greater for the third day, 
when the excitement was expected to culminate. 


200 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


The sermon was a quiet one ; the wild and beau- 
tiful songs of the Methodist hymnal blended with 
the soft rustling of the trees above, and the morn- 
ing sped quickly away. 

Great cheer was held in all the tents at noon, 
and unlimited quantities of pie eaten, — fit prepa- 
ration for the after services. Pie usually precedes 
repentance, as pie-eaters know. In the evening, 
under the blaze of the harvest-moon. Brother 
Parker arose for the first time. A tall, thin man, 
with a sallow, tender face, and emotional nature. 
His sermon was unusually fervid. A certain thrill 
moved over the assembly, and, at its close, a 
number of persons passed quietly and without ex- 
citement into the “anxious seat,” as candidates 
for the prayers of the congregation. Some were 
parents, who carried their children thither ; some 
members of the church, who felt that their faith 
had suffered a decadence. All were welcomed 
and rejoiced over by the good brethren, and men- 
tion was made of the fact that still there was 
room for others, further urgency being held in. 
reserve for the next day. 

It was then, after two long and “ searching ” 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL, 


201 


discourses, that Brother Parker had “fixed” to 
have Lucy succumb. He came to her among the 
throng, and pleaded earnestly. He even took her 
hand, and strove, with gentle force, to draw .her to 
the front. To his surprise, she resisted. TheJ 
girl had her own reserve of character, her own 
thoughts as to spiritual things. The small inclo- 
sure of rough boards, within which it seemed to 
him so important that she should kneel, was to her 
no sacred place. To her God had appeared often 
nearer — in the woods, on the hills, alone in her 
little room. Even the spectacle of her friends, 
Hepsy and Esther, conducted weeping to the 
“ anxious seat,” failed to move her. “ I cannot ; 
it would not be honest.” Such was Lucy’s 
creed ; and her flower-like beauty concealed an 
underlying strength, even as beneath the moun- 
tain-slopes enamelled with butter-cups spreads 
the indestructible granite. 

By the afternoon of the third day a wide-spread 
excitement had seized upon the camp. A rugged 
and reserved people like those of New England 
are most formidable when under the influence of 
unexpected emotion. The very novelty of sensa- 


202 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


tion and expression astounds them. Strong men 
sobbed ; women became hysterical ; young girls 
rushed forward and fell upon their knees ; the 
elders went to and fro among the crowd, expostu- 
lating, explaining, entreating. Over all rang at 
intervals the voices of the choir in wild, sweet 
snatches. A dark thunder-cloud for a moment 
hid the sun, and one low peal shook the air. 
Brother Parker stood again by Lucy; he held 
her hand. She was excited and in tears, but she 
was firm. Just then a stir took place near them. 
A young man with bowed head was hurried past 
by two of the elders. His face was hidden in his 
hands, but Lucy could not mistake. A sudden 
tide of emotion shook her soul. If Kane yielded, 
— if Kane were going to that place, — then she 
should go too. 

Was not her place by him, — in time and eter- 
nity ? Brother Parker felt the fingers quiver in his 
grasp, the resistance slacken. Another moment 
he had led her forward. She was kneeling, kneel- 
ing by Kane’s side ; and this victory of an earthly 
affection, which was to him as a heavenly one, had 
power to bring tears like rain down the good man’s 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


203 


cheeks. Sweetly rang the hymn over them, the 
cloud floated past, clear sunshine streamed in 
and bathed the place, and Heaven seemed to 
smile upon the scene. 

To our young lovers, — who shall say ? To some 
hearts God has revealed himself in this manner. 
We may not dare to question. But with their 
deeper thoughts mingled the strange sweetness of 
being there side by side, — the earthly blending 
with the unearthly, as it will do while we are 
things of earth. 

“ Don’t let her converse with any one. Sister 
Wilder;” said Brother Parker, as he restored the 
agitated Lucy to her friends. “Keep her aloof 
this evening. Let no vain conversation or gossip 
arise to disturb the impression on her mind. To- 
morrow I will talk with her further.” 

Oh, Brother Parker, had you noticed the hand- 
clasp, warmer and more lingering than became 
those who met merely upon a spiritual platform, 
exchanged between your young converts ? Did 
you hope to make matters quite safe for the im- 
portant conversation of the morrow ? Oh, Brother 
Parker, who shall guess or compute the moral 


204 


A CAMP-MEE77NG IDYL. 


blindness which Cupid can throw over even a 
good man’s soul? 

So Mrs. Wilder kept Lucy “aloof.” Poor 
Kane, hovering about the family group for the 
chance of a word, found only downcast lashes on 
the part of his idol, and discouraging looks from 
the rest. Father, mother, brother Nathan, sister- 
in-law Ellen, and faithful Draxy, — all were deter- 
mined there should be no “philandering” that 
night at least. So the flame in Kane’s soul, thus 
repressed, burned more hotly than ever; and at 
“mirk midnight” he was still lying, unable to 
sleep, and longing for the dawn, his eyes fixed on 
the fair head not a yard from him. 

A slight movement showed him that Lucy too 
slept not. In a moment, prudence and propriety 
alike forgotten, he had gently pushed his pillow 
some inches nearer. 

“ Lucy ! ” 

Such a tiny whisper! Smothered by Deacon 
Allen’s hearty snores, it would scarcely have 
caught the attention of Fine Ear ; but Lucy 
heard. 

She half turned, her face dyed with scarlet 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


205 


blushes as she saw that bold head so near. 
“ Oh don’t ! ” she breathed ; somebody will 
hear ! ” 

“ They are sound as dormice,” whispered Kane ; 
“they won’t wake. Do let me speak, Lucy. I 
shall die if you won’t listen. This afternoon, 
when I knelt there, you know, I said to God, ‘ O 
Lord, I will be a good man and a church-member 
with Thy help*; but how can I be any thing good 
unless I have the girl I love to go along with me ? 
Oh, let me have her. Lord ! ’ And just then, Lucy, 
your dress rustled, and you came and knelt down 
by me. I knew it in a moment, though I didn’t 
open my eyes. And then I felt that the Lord was 
as good as they say, and I took it as a sign from 
Him that I was to have my heart’s desire ; and 
I prayed, Lucy, — I prayed 'with all my might, 
for the first time in my life. Did you pray too, 
darling ? ” 

“Yes, Kane.” 

“ And for me ? ” 

“ Yes, Kane.” 

“Oh, Lucy, is it real? Could you really care 
for me ? I have loved you always, dear, — did 


2 o 6 a CAMP-MEETfNG IDYL. 

you know it ? But till to-night I could not 
speak it out. Will you really be my love and 
wife, Lucy ? ” 

“ Yes, Kane.” 

Never sounded words so sweet as those three 
“Yes’s,” breathed in that fairy whisper. Kane 
put out his hand, — little fingers met and clasped 
it ; and just then somebody stirred, and Deacon 
Atwater, at the far end of the tent, gave a species 
of snort, and half raised himself. With frightened 
haste the locked hands unclosed. In half a sec- 
ond Kane and Lucy, to all appearance, were fast 
asleep. And from that time till morning not a 
sound broke the stillness of the tent. 

Brother Parker was perplexed next day at the 
attitude of mind in which he found his young dis- 
ciple. She was very sweet and gentle ; bore his 
questionings patiently. And when he asked. Did 
she feel as if she loved God.? — she said, Yes j and 
she hoped always to love Him now, for He had 
made her very happy. But when the further in- 
quiry was propounded. Was this feeling so strong 
that she felt justified in becoming the wife of a 
minister of the Gospel ? — the answer was immedi- 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 20/ 

ate. No ! She could never have married a min- 
ister, any way ; and besides, — 

“ Besides what? ” 

She had promised Elkanah Robbins to marry 
him. 

But when had this promise been made ? Long 
and sorely did Brother Parker puzzle over the 
matter ; and so did Mrs. Wilder, who, in the heat 
of her astonishment at “ that child’s thinkin’ of a 
husband,” was heard to say, that for her part she 
couldn’t think how they got at each other ! Lucy 
and Kane kept their own counsel, and the affair 
in time got to be spoken of as “ happenin’ at the 
camp ; ” which fact made it more than usually in- 
teresting to the neighbors. Small and transient 
opposition had our young couple to contend with. 
They were married the next year. Both are mem- 
bers of the church now, and Kane was on the 
Conference Committee for the last camp-meeting. 
When people ask if he got religion at Cadiz, he is 
wont to answer that “that’s a matter between 
him and the Lord ; but if not, he got something 
most as good,” — his eloquent glance finishing the 
sentence. Elder Robbins will be an indulgent 


208 


A CAMP-MEETING IDYL. 


friend to the next generation in Ammonoosuc. 
And if he should ever lie in tabled state, and hear 
a little silvery confabulation break in upon the 
silence of the “ guarded tent,” we may be pretty 
sure that he will be conveniently blind and deaf 
to what is going on, — remembering how sweetly 
once his Lucy’s voice broke the stillness with, 
“Yes, Kane.” 


BLUE-BEARD. 


" The legendary enwraps the real as a flower 
its germ.” That sounds fanciful, but has mean- 
ing in it. Trace back the heroes of song and 
fable to history’s early dawn, and what are they ? 
Real, breathing men, as much a part of their 
time as Louis Napoleon and Benjamin Butler 
of ours. The monster of legend turns out a pes- 
tiferous marsh, — the St. George an intelligent 
noble with an eye for effects and causes. Even 
the characters of fairy-lore loom up in palpable 
shape, — half seen, half guessed. The prince who 
woke his love with a kiss is no marvel. Kisses 
are of to-day, — before our eyes is the miracle 
wrought. Puss-in-Boots shadows forth the com- 
ing railroad or pneumatic tube. Red-Riding- 
Hood’s wolf was a baby-farmer or a seller of swill- 
milk j the malevolent godmother but Mrs. Grundy 
invested with official position. There they stand, 
14 


210 


BLUE-BEARD. 


the'nudet of their delightful selves, in that vague 
distance known as “ many hundreds of years 
since ; ” and who knows but we who smile at 
them as unreal, and at ourselves as commonplace, 
may, after the lapse of centuries, be also woven 
into fairy legend, and in our turn become the 
joy and pastime of nurseries as incredulous as 
those of to-day. 

That most instructive creature, Blue-Beard, for 
instance, — who can fail to realize his actuality ? 
Does he not typify a class whom we see repre- 
sented every day, — which figures largely in soci- 
ety, and supplies a painful and pleasing study for 
the curious in human nature ? 

I seem to see him. How the girls of his period 
fluttered with excitement over his successive be- 
reavements ! How ready they were to “ come 
and be killed,” without even asking the name of 
the sauce with which they were to be eaten ! And 
the mammas : “Poor fellow, how unfortunate he 
is ! ” they said (as if matrimony were an invest- 
ment, and the shares depreciating !). “ We must 

ask him to tea some night, — it is so forlorn in 
that great empty house of his.” Ah, and didn’t 


BLUE-BEARD. 


2II 


he come, mild resignation on his brow? And as 
the Fair Fatima spoons pensively the canned 
peaches, or plays “ The Spirit Waltz ” on the 
piano, doesn’t he warm into cheerfulness ; so that 
mamma says after he goes, “ We must really 
have that poor man here again ! How much good 
it seems to do him ! ” So he appears again and 
again ; cheerfulness increases into hilarity ; soon 
all is merry as a marriage-bell. Happy Fatima 
' mounts to the top of the wheel, and, by-and-by, 
when her turn comes, revolves down the other 
side, leaving Anne to console the disconsolate 
widower, — Anne, who is there in the house, you 
know, with propinquity to aid, and, so far as we 
are aware, no “law prohibiting marriage with 
a deceased wife’s sister” to prevent her. Not- 
withstanding that disagreeable session on the 
towertop, I question if she says him nay. 

Do I speak bitterly? When I have told my 
story you will not wonder, for I have had the 
privilege of acquaintance with a Blue-Beard, — 
one of the real original type; and if anybody 
has a right to utter the truth about him, it is 
myself, — for Fatima was my own niece. 


212 


BLUE-BEARD. 


When we came to L. to live, Blue-Beard (whose 
name in common parlance was James Robson) 
was undergoing a brief interregnum between his 
third and fourth spouse. I used to hear people 
allude to him as “ most unfortunate in his wives ; ” 
but ere I committed myself to any throb of sym- 
pathy, his fresh engagement was announced, speed- 
ily followed by a marriage. We sat near Mr. and 
Mrs. Robson in church, and I watched the gradual 
fading-away of the fourth bride with the compara- 
tive indifference of non-acquaintance. A judg- 
ment waited on my hardness of heart. Had I 
guessed, had the least suspicion crossed me of 
what was coming, each change in that thin, dis- 
couraged face would have filled me with tremb- 
ling anxiety. But I did not guess ; and, about the 
time she died, my nieces, Fanny and Anne Weir, 
came to live with us. 

We were delighted to have them. No house, 
to my thinking, is complete without a young lady, 
half pet, half companion ; and, having a motherly 
turn and no children of my own to rest it on, the 
possession of these girls gave me great pleasure. 
Anne was an admirable creature, steady, sensible. 


BLUE-BEARD. 


213 


and sweet, a real English lassie in looks and man- 
ner; while little Fanny, four years her junior, was 
bonnie and fresh as a summer rose. They fell at 
once into our quiet ways of living, and ere long 
became universal favorites in the town, invited 
and begged for by everybody. At one party — 
which, as it happened, I didn’t attend — they 
met James Robson, then a widower of four 
months’ standing, and beginning, as people say, 
to “ take notice ” most unmistakably. 

The next thing I knew, he had fished for an 
iiavitation and was coming to tea. Now John 
(that’s my husband) is one of those men who, 
being almost too good to live themselves, imagine 
all the rest of mankind equally good, and think 
no evil of anybody. So when I upbraided him 
he replied : — 

And why shouldn’t the poor fellow have a little 
change in a quiet way, I should like to know ? ” 

“ Oh, well,” I replied, grimly^ “ if you wish to 
have Fanny at eighteen marry four widowers and 
die at twenty-one, I have nothing more to say ! ” 

“ Sue, you’re insane on that point ! What on 
earth should Robson want of Fanny, — a mere 


214 


BLUE-BEARD. 


child ? He’s forty, if he’s a day ; a grave busi- 
ness man, with his head full of affairs. I declare, 
I believe women think a man can’t see a pretty 
girl without wanting to marry her ! ” 

“ I have yet to know the widower who saw one, 
and didn’t.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” 

I let the subject drop, — what is the use of 
arguing with a man on a question of instinct? 
We are told that “ there are no intuitions con- 
cerning pig-iron;” perhaps not, — but there may 
easily be concerning the man who sells it : and 
with the energy of despair I kept my eye on 
James Robson. The more I watched, the more I 
didn’t like him ; and, as I expressed my senti- 
ments pretty freely, before long my husband re- 
monstrated with me again, after this wise : — 

“Now, Sue, what is all this? I never heard 
any thing so unjust in my life. The man isn’t 
to blame for losing his wives. One would think 
you suspected him of putting them out of the way 
purposely.” 

“ There’s a deal of nice shading in murder, 
John. You ought to admire me instead of scold- 


BLUE-BEARD. 


215 


ing, for I’m being logical for the first time in my 
life. Haven’t you explained to me fifty thousand 
times that there never is an elfect without a 
cause ? ” 

“ I’ve said so certainly ; but as for the fif ” — 

“ Oh, never mind ! That’s only one way of say- 
ing a great many I Now, sir: If four children die 
off one after the other in a family, you and every 
body else are aware that either there is some 
fatal tendency in the blood, or the house is ill- 
drained or otherwise unwholesome. But wives 
come of different families ; and as for Mr. Rob- 
son’s house, it stands on the top of the hill, the 
best and healthiest locality in L. Still, there is 
never an effect without a cause, John. Now, 
what is that cause ? ” 

“ And may I inquire what is your own opinion 
upon that subject?” asked John, fixing upon me 
a pair of amused but indignant eyes. 

“ I conclude that he nags his wives to death,” 
was my cool rejoinder. “ I have made a care- 
ful study of his character, and detect in it the 
elements of a first-class aggravator.” 

John was too indignant to pursue the subject j 


2I6 


BLUE-BEARD. 


and unhappily it soon became evident that Fanny 
agreed with him rather than with me. I can’t 
think what it is in widowers that so appeals to 
the fancy of a young girl. Even sage Anne fell 
to a degree under his spell. But it is only fair 
to say that, of all the members of the guild I ever 
saw, James Robson best understood the advan- 
tages of the position. His demeanor deserved 
to be classed under the head of “high art.” 
Tall and slender, with beautiful blue-black hair 
and whiskers, he had just that cast of countenance 
which is termed “ interesting.” At first he made 
his appearance all crape, hat-band, and mourn- 
ing-studs, — manly sorrow and pensive sweetness 
delicately mingled in his manner. Then, his 
visits thickening, gleams of cheerfulness began 
to break out like sun through mist; and he 
> thanked us touchingly for “brightening the lot 
of a lonely man.” In his most lively moments, 
there was a shade of retrospect. He seemed, so 
to speak, in the position once metaphorically 
ascribed by a youthful divine to the Episcopal 
Church, “ one foot planted upon the future, the 
other pointing to the stars.” What girl living 


BLUE-BEARD. 


217 


could resist the flattery of this witching sadness, 
— flattery suggested, not spoken ? My poor Fanny 
did not. In an unconscionably short time she 
had learned to blush at his knock ; and exactly 
ten months after the funeral of the fourth Mrs. 
Robson, her widower, still wearing his crape 
insignia, with the enlivenment of a pale lilac 
cravat, appeared, Fanny on his arm, all smiles 
and dimples, to crave our blessing. “ Dear 
Fanny had consented to brighten his desolate 
home.” 

There was no helping it. The child loved 
him, — and that aggravating John would make 
the best of the affair. I could only rage in 
private, and wear a brow of outward calm. All 
the arrangements were as gall and wormwood 
to my spirit. ,The wedding-dress was ordered 
with as many sighs as if it had been a shroud. 
By the bridegroom’s particular request, it was 
chosen of a delicate pearl-color' instead of the 
conventional white, — as a sort of second-mourn- 
ing for his other wives, perhaps ; and, regarded in 
that light, the idea struck me as rather touching 
and symbolic. In every other respect, “ Fanny’s 


2I8 


BLUE-BEARD. 


wake,” as in moments of confidence I could 
not help calling it, was strictly en regie, — cake, 
flowers, congratulations, and all. She looked 
fair and fresh as a May-blossom, and the com- 
pany agreed that Mr. Robson’s manner was 
perfection ; happy, but not too happy, — a skilful 
blending of bliss and reminiscence. He pre- 
sented Dr. Seeley with a marriage fee of twenty- 
five dollars, — which, it was whispered about, was 
what he “ usually gave ; ” and, with one of Anne’s 
old shoes thrown after them “ for luck,” the happy 
pair set off on a short bridal journey. 

“Well,” I said to John that night, as I laid 
my aching head on my pillow, “ it is a comfort 
to have it pass off so well, since it must be. But 
to think — only to think — of our Fanny married 
to a wehr-wolf ! I shall never get over it.” 

But, for all that, I cannot deny having taken 
a good deal of pleasure in the small feminine 
bustle of settling the bride in her new home. 
Very few women can resist the charm of arrang- 
ing a pretty, new menage, — though this, to be 
sure, hardly came under that head, but was, as 
James justly remarked, “a place of memories.” 


BLUE-BEARD. 


219 


We freshened and smartened and did our best 
to lay the ghosts. I packed away all the books 
on the centre-table, which had “ To Amanda,” 
“To Laura,” “To Susan,” and “To Marianne,” 
“ a gift of love,” inscribed on their fly-leaves ; 
and made a bonfire of innumerable old pincush- 
ions bearing the four-fold initials. Sundry mar- 
vellous creations in tent-stitch also I caused to 
disappear : — a whole regiment of daguerreo- 
types were relegated to a distant drawer. When 
completed, the house looked pleasant as heart 
could wish. Fanny came home radiantly happy, 
and for a few short weeks I anodyned common 
sense, and allowed myself to take some satisfac- 
tion in the affair. 

Alas ! In the course of six months the sweet 
little face began to alter ; the eyes looked sleep- 
less, — a worried frown appeared on the smooth 
forehead. 

“Aunty,” said Anne one day, '“is there really 
any use in those books that Fanny pores over all 
the time ? ” 

“ Books ? ” 

“Yes. There are five of them, — little ones, 


220 


BLUE-BEARD. 


bound in leather, for house-keeping purposes, she 
says. One is for ‘ Servants’ Wages ’ I know, and 
another for ‘ Domestic Accounts ; ’ but I can’t 
think what the rest are for. And she worries 
so over them, — and wrinkles up her poor fore- 
head. You know she never had any head for 
figures, and these, she says, never will come 
right.” 

“ Nonsense ! I’ve kept house for twenty years 
with just one plain, easy-going account-book, which 
your uncle adds up for me twice a month. Why 
should Fanny cumber herself with so much fuss ? ” 

“Oh, it isn’t Fanny, — it’s James, you know! 
All his wives kept them, he says. Laura was the 
best accountant, — but Fanny is the very worst of 
all. And Aunty,” went on Anne, with tears in 
her eyes, “ he looks them over twice a week, and 
is so sharp and severe if a figure is wrong I Fanny 
confessed to me that she lies awake at night puz- 
zling over them ; and I really do believe it is that 
which makes her look so pale and old.” 

“ Oh, Blue-Beard ! Blue-Beard ! ” I groaned. 

Next day I dropped in upon Fanny, and in a 
casual way inquired into the subject. There were 


BLUE-BEARD. 


221 


the books, to be sure, — the remaining three, it 
seemed, being for “Personal Expenses,” “Farm 
and Garden,” and a “ Daily Record” of such events 
as, “ Calls Made and Received,” and “ Letters 
Posted.” All James’s wives had kept them, and 
Fanny must ; poor Fanny, whose existence hereto- 
fore had been fearless and free as the life of a 
field-lily. 

It seems a little matter, — but perpetual pin- 
pricking kills in time as well as a direct stab. I 
fear my Fanny was not a wise woman, — certainly 
the keeping of books was not her forte; and she 
counted her fingers over that horrid little library 
till her cheeks grew thin and pale, and all her old 
life seemed dying out of her. And we could do 
nothing to help,' except to get Anne invited to 
make a long visit. 

From her observations I grasped the true con- 
dition of affairs. James had turned out exactly 
what I predicted, “ a first-class aggravator.” Never 
in a rage, but never satisfied,* his peculiar forte 
was that w'hich goes by the name of “ nagging.” 
Every act in life he surrounded by a fence of 
petty rules and laws, any infraction of which was 
a capital offence. 


222 


BLUE-BEARD. 


That “the husband is the head of the wife’^ 
was a cardinal point in his creed. Headship im- 
plied subjection. One small tyranny followed 
another, like the water-drop of the inquisition, — 
each a trifle, each a torment, but giving the will 
no interval in which to recover its spring. Such 
treatment is most crushing to a gentle, youthful 
nature. James was not a bad man (though I have 
seen plenty of bad men who were not half so dis- 
agreeable as he). All his theories were conscien- 
tiously pursued ; but under their influence Fanny 
was fading like a frozen flower. 

“ My dear,” her husband would say, “ I should 
like to have you, the first thing after breakfast, 
write a letter to my sister Julia not less than six 
pages long. Give her the news of the neighbor- 
hood and of our own home, in an agreeable man- 
ner. If it is finished by ten, you will have an 
hour and a half left for your house-keeping, and 
three-quarters of an hour for exercise. Do not 
go to your aunt’s, or you will be tempted to out- 
stay the time. I notice that you frequently do 
so, though the clock is before your eyes, and 
as a general thing five minutes ahead of ours. 


BLUE-BEARD. 


223 


Directly after dinner I will look the letter over, 
so as to mail it at 3.20. And this evening, 
Fanny, I propose to revise your accounts.” 

Upon which, kissing her magisterially, James 
would depart, leaving Fanny to fret over her 
books, droop through the stated exercise, and 
tremble at the thought of being five minutes late. 
Her whole time was thus mapped out, while the 
shining examples of her predecessors were used 
for purposes of stimulus and warning. Laura’s 
account-books it seemed were models of elegant 
exactitude ; Susan’s attention never wandered 
while a husband was speaking; not once did 
Marianne forget to have the newspaper cut, dried, 
and laid on its appointed table ; only twice during 
her married life was Amanda late for dinner 1 
And poor Fanny, forgetting that Laura survived 
her wedding-day but three years, Susan four, Ma- 
rianne two and a half, and Amanda only a brief 
fourteen months, toiled diligently in their departed 
footsteps, to satisfy James and qualify herself for 
admission into the sainted quartette. 

“ I declare. Aunty,” cried Anne in a paroxysm, 
‘‘ the house is like a tomb ! I can’t breathe while 


224 


BLUE-BEARD. 


I am in it. If it were not for Fanny I should 
come home to-morrow.” 

‘‘ And just because it is for Fanny you will do 
no such thing,” I retorted ; “ you are the sole 
comfort the poor child has, and stay you must.” 

So stay she did, week after week, — treated 
most politely by James, who was habitually civil 
to all ladies except the one most immediately con- 
nected with him. In my uncharitable heart I ac- 
cused him of regarding all unmarried femaledom 
as floating possibilities, which idea I found infi- 
nitely enraging. 

Just at this time — barely a year after Fanny’s 
marriage — Tom Weir came home from Cali- 
fornia. 

Did I mention Tom before? He was several 
years older than his sisters, and had been away so 
long that they hardly remembered what he was 
like. I lost my heart to him at once; a great, 
powerful, fair-haired fellow, full of fun and spirit, 
but as tender-hearted as a woman. The girls were 
enchanted at their acquisition ; they felt as people 
do who are newly come into a fortune, and could 
hardly bear to lose sight of their brother for a 


BLUE-BEARD. 


225 


moment. To Fanny it was as though a breath 
from heaven had blown into her dry life. “ Tom ” 
was her first thought in the morning ; to get 
through her tasks and have time for Tom, she 
would sit conning her rows of figures and calling 
out, — “ Keep your eye on the road, won’t you, 
Anne? Tell me when he has started from Aunt 
Sue’s ! ” And Anne from the window would 
answer : “ There’s time enough, dear ; the air 
is so thick with dust that I can hardly see, but I 
think he isn’t coming yet.” Then Fanny would 
hurry on, adding and subtracting, and making all 
sorts of direful blunders, of which she heard after- 
ward from James, you may be sure. 

As for Tom, he was as much captivated with his 
sisters as they with him. He had left little chil- 
dren, and here they were grown women, compan- 
ions, every thing that was delightful. “ Anne ! 
What a capital girl Anne is, now isn’t she. Aunt 
Sue?” he would exclaim; “so affectionate and 
risfht-minded and sensible ! I like Anne of all 
things. But somehow Fanny is different from 
what I expected. Such a care-worn little fairy, 
— and she used to be a regular apple-blossom ! 
How is it?” 


16 


226 


BLUE-BEARD. 


I would not say. He was about to make the 
Robsons a visit, and I left him to find out for 
himself. He was not long in doing so. 

The very first morning after his arrival, some 
plan was proposed at breakfast, and negatived by 
James after his usual peremptory fashion. 

“ My dear, you forget ! Your sister has duties 
in the morning hours, Tom, which will not allow of 
her going out ; and I have something else in view 
for the afternoon. By the way, Fanny, we take 
tea at your Aunt’s, I think.” 

“Yes, James.” 

“ Then you had better have the books in read- 
iness for me after dinner. You have neglected 
them sadly of late, I notice ; and I was sorry to 
see a blot in the Account Book and two erasures 
in the Record. Do be more careful, my dear. 
Nothing disfigures the page like a blot, — except 
an erasure, — and it’s not what Fve been ac- 
customed to!^^ 

With this neat retrospective sniff he went his 
way. Fanny made no comment, but tears were 
in her eyes as she bent over her desk, and Tom 
sat watching her, and pulling the ends of his 


BLUE-BEARD, 


227 


tawny mustache stormily. After one or two 
scenes of this kind, he came off to me in tower- 
ing wrath. 

“ Aunt Sue, what does it mean ? Why should 
Robson order Fanny about, and tell her to do this 
and that, — and not do the other thing? If it’s 
the custom of this part of the country, I say 
nothing ; but it isn’t our way in California, I can 
tell you. And for my part I’d be hanged before 
I would bully a poor little ” — 

Tom finished off the sentence with a clutch at 
his beard. 

I had been discreet so many months that my 
tongue fairly ached ; and at this question the 
barriers gave way. I laid the reins on the neck 
of prudence, and, in the best Anglo-Saxon of 
which I was mistress, relieved myself of a volume 
of pent-up wrath, 

“ And if no duty to Fanny were involved, Tom,” 
was my concluding burst, “ we owe it to the public 
not to set James Robson free to marry on indefi- 
nitely. Why, the Mormons are nothing to him, — 
at least they dispense with the funeral baked meats 
on their marriage tables. It isn’t a bit wickeder, 


228 


BLUE-BEARD. 


in my opinion, to have six wives at a time than 
six in succession ; and it’s a great deal more 
humane ! ” 

Tom departed with kindling eyes at the close 
of this ebullition, — which I refused to repent of, 
though dreadfully taken to task by John for it 
afterwards. 

“ Something must be done, ” I told him, ‘‘ and 
Tom is the person to do it. He isn’t one of the 
clumsy sort, — he won’t make a mess.” 

And he didn’t. With a tact that was almost 
feminine, he went to work, gently and adroitly. 
Fanny was the person first approached. He got 
her to himself for a long drive ; and, when at safe 
distance from home, reined his horses under a 
tree, put his arm around her waist, and in the 
kindest and sweetest manner plunged into the sub- 
ject of her domestic worries. 

She gave him little trouble. Wifely loyalty 
contended awhile with the craving for sympathy ; 
but it was impossible long to resist his tenderness, 
and soon she had sobbed out her griefs. 

“ I’m a silly little thing, I know,” she said. 
“James always tells me that my intellect has less 


BLUE-BEARD. 


229 


calibre than any of his other wives. And then, 
you know, Anne and Aunt Sue have spoiled me. 
And indeed, Tom, I have tried to do my best, — ■ 
only it’s a little hard, after such an indulgent 
home as I have had, to grapple with the serious 
responsibilities of life ! ” 

Tom could hardly help laughing. “And what 
are those, dear Fanny?” 

“ Oh, the books, you know ; and keeping up to 
all the little household rules which James likes ; 
and never being a moment late ! ” 

“ Rubbish, every one of them, believe me ! My 
dear child, Robson has a good income and you 
a house full of servants. There was never such 
unnecessary nonsense known in the world, as 
these ‘ rules ’ you speak of.” 

“ Do you really think so ? ” 

“ I am sure of it. Look at Aunt Susan ! Where 
was there ever a pleasanter, more orderly house 
than hers ? and she finds none of these absurd 
details needful to make it so. They are simply 
a crotchet of your husband’s ; and, though I 
would not for the world counsel you to the 
violation of any real wifely duty, I think — and 


230 


BLUE-BEARD, 


so do Anne and Aunty — that both James and 
you would be happier if some of these petty ex- 
actions were resisted.” 

“ But would it be right ? ” 

“ Yes, deaf Fanny, it would. You are no longer 
a child, but a woman grown. You have a claim 
to assert yourself ; and James, depend upon it, 
will love you no less and respect you all the more, 
if you take the management of things about the 
house into your own hands.” 

“I wish I could,” said Fanny; “but I’m afraid 
I don’t know how to ‘ assert myself,’ Tom. ” 

“ I don’t believe you do,” replied her brother. 
“ I shall have to teach you ; and you must promise 
me to try the experiment fairly. I will lend all 
the aid I can.” 

So a little plan was concocted ; and next morn- 
ing, when James issued his fiat for the day’s ar- 
rangement, Fanny, in compliance with instructions, 
replied firmly though timidly, “I’m sorry, James, 
but I can’t attend to all these things this morning. 
Tom and I are going out on horseback.” 

“Yes,” chimed in her supporter ; “you will be 
glad to hear, Robson, that I have persuaded 


BLUE-BEARD. 


231 


Fanny for once to give up her pernicious habit of 
staying indoors all the morning. Women never 
spend half the time they should in the open air. 
The horses are to be here at ten. Isn’t it a lovely 
day?” 

James glared, but was too much taken by sur- 
prise to contest the point. He resolved, however, 
to speak his mind about it in the afternoon ; but 
when afternoon came it appeared that a croquet 
party was on the tapis^ and before he could inter- 
fere they were off. 

So it went on. Enchanted with her new free- 
dom, Fanny made engagements right and left, — 
filling the house once consecrated to account- 
keeping and matrimpnial monologue with so many 
pleasant things, that her husband could hardly 
catch her even for a curtain-lecture. It was im- 
possible to complain that domestic affairs suffered, 
for the house had never been better ordered or 
pleasanter ; but all was done witli a desultory ease 
infinitely aggravating to his feelings. When re- 
monstrated with, Fanny would reply : — 

“But after all, dear James, what is the use in 
being so exact ? The accounts are all there, and 


232 


BLUE-BEARD. 


if you like to sum them up, I shall be much 
obliged ; but as to going over the ground everv 
day or two, I really cannot. That tiresome ‘ Rec- 
ord,’ too, I have given up. You must attend to 
it, if you really care about it. Tom’s visit is so 
precious that I can’t spare time for any but really 
necessary things.” And with a laugh and kiss 
she would dismiss the subject. 

Improving by practice, she soon developed an 
airy tact of resistance which far surpassed her 
brother’s lessons. Nay, she was once heard to 
say, in a moment of special aggravation, “Your 
third wife was an admirable woman, I am sure, 
James ; but excuse me for reminding you that she 
has nothing whatever to do with the question,” — 
and poor James, his best trick thus trumped, was 
left in stupefied silence. It is proof of the in- 
herent weakness of small tyrannies, that this treat- 
ment did not make him vindictive, — only sour 
and puzzled. Fanny, meantime, looked brighter 
than for months ; the house was more cheerful, 
and Tom all that was kind and fraternal. Under 
the effect of this double treatment, the truth at 
last began to dawn on Blue-Beard James. 


BLUE-BEARD. 


233 


He grew humbler, — less sure of his ground. 
Tom guessed his state of mind ; and one day, 
finding opportunity, he broached the subject, and 
kindly but plainly told him what he thought of his 
conduct as a husband. 

It must have been a curious scene. James was 
furious at first, but Tom would not quarrel j and 
as they went on James gradually shifted his posi- 
tion and began to excuse himself. He must really 
have loved Fanny, I think, or he could not have 
borne it so well. And he improved, — grew milder 
and more tolerant. Fanny heard much less of 
the “ mental calibre ” of her predecessors, now 
that her own was proved more than a match for 
his ; and they were bn the high road to become 
tolerably happy, when the finger of Fate inter- 
posed, and left the end of the experiment for 
ever unknown. 

They say when you shatter a man’s firmest con- 
viction, you weaken his hold on' life. Certain it 
is that, when typhoid fever swept through the town 
in early autumn that year, James was one of its 
first victims. From almost the outset, the case 
was a hopeless one. Illness brought back all his 


234 


BLUE-BEARD. 


old habits ; he was unreasonable and fault-find- 
ing to a degree. Fanny nursed him devotedly. 
As death drew near, a softer mood fell upon him, 
and in touching terms he asked her forgiveness for 
his long unkindness. She, poor thing, drowned 
in tears, could not recollect that such had ever 
been. He died holding her hand, and was buried 
in the cemetery, according to his own request, 
with two wives on each side of him. 

In the eyes of some, I shall be inexcusable for 
penning this veracious history of one who has 
passed beyond human criticism and into what 
seems to be generally considered “The Realm of 
Eulogy.” But I am not of those who believe that 
the fact of death can alter the many facts of life. 
Death sets a seal on the completed story; the 
incidents remain the same. What has been, has 
been ; and what I have written, — I have written. 

Our dear little Fanny is with us again, and, 
except for her widow’s cap and the shade on her 
young face, would seem never to have gone away. 
Like Fatima in the old legend, she has a gallant 
brother and a faithful Anne to console her. 
Whether these ties will suffice her always, is a 


BLUE-BEARD. 


235 


question that only time can unravel; at twenty 
it is hazardous to venture on prediction. Of one 
thing, however, I am well assured, — which is that 
she shall never, with my consent, leave us to be- 
come for the second time the Chd,telaine of a Blue- 
Beard’s castle. 


“HE THAT BELIEVETH SHALL NOT 
MAKE HASTE.” 

The aloes grow upon the sand, 

The aloes thirst with parching heat ; 

Year after year they waiting stand 
Lonely and calm, and front the beat 
Of desert winds, and still a sweet 
And subtle voice thrills all their veins ; 

“ Great patience wins : it still remains 
After a century of pains 

To you to bloom and be complete.” 

I grow upon a thorny waste. 

Hot noontide lies on all the way. 

And with its scorching breath makes haste 
Each freshening dawn to burn and slay ; 
Yet patiently I bide and stay; 

Knowing the secret of my fate. 

The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait, 

Come when it will, or soon or late, 

A hundred years is but a day. 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


It is one of the miserable things in life that 
there are persons to whom the gift of expression 
is denied. We pity those whose bodily speech is 
wanting, but no one pities the spiritually dumb. 
Their affliction is incomprehensible to us, and we 
treat its victims as though in some way they suf- 
fered through their own fault. No cruelty is 
meant by this. It is next to impossible for frank 
and outspoken persons to comprehend that all 
cannot speak, and that much suffering sometimes 
lies locked in this enforced silence. 

Helen Miles was one of these speechless souls. 
As a child she was pale and still. The aunt who 
brought her up, and did not love her, suspected 
her of “ slyness,” and openly quoted the proverb 
about “still waters.” At sixteen she was called 
“shy,” at twenty-five stigmatized as cold. Shy- 


238 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM, 


ness is not admissible excuse after twenty. 
Tall, with a good figure and features, thick light- 
brown hair without the least gloss or curl, a fair, 
colorless skin, a graceful hand and arm, Helen 
was entitled to pass for a pretty woman. In fact, 
women no prettier rank often as belles. But 
she was not beautiful enough for a statue, and 
as a statue her acquaintance persisted in regard- 
ing her; which certainly was not just. She had 
some dim consciousness of this, and it made her 
uncomfortable. Her eyes looked out at times 
with a pitiful, inquiring look, — the look we see in 
a dog’s eyes or a doe’s : a look we cannot quite 
read. Nobody read Helen’s. Two or three peo- 
ple, attracted by this odd face, made little exper- 
iments, fumbled at the lock of her impassible 
reticence, but it was in vain ; all the incantations, 
the “open sesames,” failed, — nothing came of it. 
“ Cold as a stone, my dear 1 ” women said of her ; 
and by general agreement she was set down as a 
person without enthusiasm, “ faultily faultless, icily 
regular,” — a person who said little because she 
felt nothing, to whom generous impulse was un- 
known. With such judgment are some women 
iudged, and will be to the end of the world. 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


239 


Just one crevice existed in this armor of ice. 
through which at times the real Helen looked 
out and revealed herself. Did I say that she 
sang ? Her voice was low and rich, rather bari- 
tone than contralto \ its range was limited to 
a few notes, but it possessed an extraordinary 
pathetic quality. She sang no songs which other 
people sang, but took scraps from this poet and 
that, — Arnold, Tennyson, Rossetti, Landor, — 
and set them to weird little harmonies of her own 
composition. Nothing of the limitation of her 
nature belonged to this unique musical faculty, 
except that she could not always sing, nor to all 
people, and that there were persons before whom 
she could not sing at all. Of course this only 
made every one more eager to hear her. Happy 
prosperous people like to indulge in the luxury of 
being made fictitiously miserable. It was a fash- 
ionable excitement to sit in the twilight and have 
Helen Miles break your heart with her pathetic 
voice, and she was greatly in request ; in fact, 
her music constituted her chief hold on society. 

Reginald Thurston remembered long afterward 
the night when first he hea/rd her. Mrs. Le Clerc’s 


240 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


drawing-room was dim with fire-light as he went 
in, — the light of a flickering wood Are, which 
sparkled on the sofa where Rosalie Le Clerc lay, 
and sent long, sudden shadows across the floor. 
From the inner room came the sound of singing. 

“ If now you saw me, you would say, 

‘ Where is the face I used to prize ? ’ 

And I would answer, ‘ Gone before ; 

It tarries veiled in Paradise.’ 

When once the morning-star shall rise, 

When earth with shadow flees away, 

And we stand safe within the door, 

You shall lift up the veil that day. 

Look up, look on ; for far above 

Our palms are grown, our place is set : 

There we shall meet as once we met. 

And love with old familiar love.” 

So Helen sang, her deep notes charged with 
a woful passion, which changed Reginald’s mood, 
and made him all at once feel saddened and chill. 
He stood in shadow till the music ended, then 
moved forward. 

“ How do you do ? ” said Mrs. Le Clerc, her 
gay, friendly voice coming like relief after that 
other. “We are keeping blindman’s holiday, 
as you see, and Miss Miles has been singing to 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


241 


us. Can you find a chair in this darkness, Mr. 
Thurston ? Here’s one. O, Helen ! don’t stop : 
go on.” 

But Helen had left the piano, and was moving 
toward them. Reginald, who was shaking hands 
with the invalid Rosalie, was glad of this. He 
did not care for music as music, and he hated to 
have his feelings drawn upon in society. Be- 
sides, he had some curiosity to see the singer. 

She came forward steadily, made an icy little 
bend on introduction, and sat down by the fire. 

“ Please, Miss Miles, sing something else.” 

“ Excuse me, Rosalie : not to-night.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Le Clerc, “ if you won’t be 
persuaded to give us more music, we will have 
the gas.” She lighted it as she spoke. Regi- 
nald glanced at the cool pale face framed in its 
lustreless hair ; but he was not attracted. He 
liked lively, vivacious women, who chatted and 
entertained him, and with whom he was not 
forced to exert himself. Intensely reserved, he 
hid the fact under an easy, jovial manner. Anec- 
dotes, repartees, great bursts of Homeric laugh- 
ter, — these made up his coat of armor. People 
16 


242 AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 

generally did not suspect that he wore any. 
Out of the pulpit he was just like other men, 
they said ; the truth being, that only in the pulpit 
was he really himself. 

He scarcely noticed Helen again this evening. 
Not once did they speak ; and he was quite un- 
conscious of the quick, startled glances with 
which she favored him. Never had she looked 
thus at any one. From the moment of their 
meeting, a new influence possessed her. She 
did not question or analyze, but drifted on its 
flow, asking not whither. 

“ Mamma,” said Rosalie after the guests were 
gone, “did you notice Helen Miles to-night.? I 
never saw her so queer.” 

“ She is always queer. I didn’t notice any 
thing in particular. What was it ? ” 

“I — don’t — know ” (thoughtfully). “ She 
looked so strangely at Mr. Thurston ! and, though 
she was as still as ever, she gave me the impres- 
sion of being dreadfully excited about something. 
That deadly quiet of hers is horrible ! I grew 
so nervous, that I wanted to scream.” 

“Nasty girl!” responded Mrs. Le Clerc, who 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


243 


looked upon the human race in general as mate- 
rial for the amusement of her daughter. “We 
won’t ask her again. I only did it because you 
enjoy her singing so much.” 

“ It isn’t exactly enjoyment,” said Rosalie. 
“ Her voice is delicious ; but I am never so low- 
spirited as while she sings. How strange that 
so cold a person should make one feel so ! Are 
you sure she is so cold, mamma ? ” 

“ Cold as a stone,” pronounced Mrs. Le Clerc 
decisively. 

It is hard to be classified as a stone, and yet 
to have none of a stone’s immunities. This luck- 
less Helen of mine was no wiser than the rest of 
her sex, and far less happy. Weeks went on. 
She and Mr. Thurston met continually, as peo- 
ple do when once they begin. Continually his 
attraction for her became stronger. It was not 
long before she knew that she loved, and (for 
she never blinded herself) loved hopelessly. This 
did not pain her greatly, except at moments : she 
was used to finding herself locked away from the 
every-day experiences of other women, and the 
mere fact of loving brought with it a stir and 


244 ALOE BLOSSOM. 

thrill of which she had not dreamed herself 
capable. 

What was it in this big, careless, happy man 
which drew her so powerfully ? Who can say ? 
Which of us can pretend to measure or antici- 
pate the strange ebbs and flows, the flux and re- 
flux, of our likes or our dislikes, those insensible 
forces which act without our governance, and 
mould our lives ? She only knew that some 
stringent spiritual pressure bent her toward him, 
and, alas ! that a force equally stringent held 
her in bonds when he was present, sealed her 
lips, froze her manner, made her altogether im- 
passive and unattractive, repelling where she 
would fain have pleased. Too proud to chal- 
lenge even by a look the notice of a popular, 
sought-after man, she coldly drew aside, while 
other women petted and flattered her hero to 
their hearts’ content, and nothing occurred — 
nothing could, in fact, occur — to bring them to 
the knowledge of each other. 

After a while, a strange happiness came to 
her from the very secrecy of this unreturned 
affection. In her heart she named Reginald by 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


245 


tender names ; every day her thoughts went out 
toward him. She dared to believe that in some 
way unknown to her, but known of God, his life 
must be the better and richer for this ceaseless 
dew of benediction poured upon it. Nobody 
guessed, nobody read, the lineaments of generous 
passion behind the cold veil of her face ; none 
heard the prayers in which his name stood first. 
Those who know not the bliss of receiving feel 
full joy of giving. She thought herself — she was 
— content. This contentment would, of course, 
have vanished in a whirlwind had Reginald given 
sign of an intention to be happy with somebody 
else ; but she was not tested in that way. 

It was at this time that she took to singing a 
little song culled from some newspaper, and set 
to minor chords, with a single change into that 
deeper minor which affects the ear with sudden 
awe, as the transition from twilight into the denser 
darkness of a solemn crypt affects the eye. 

“ Why should I weary you, dear heart, with words, — 
Words all discordant with a foolish pain ? 

Thoughts cannot interrupt, nor prayers do wrong ; 

And soft and silently as summer rain 
Mine fall upon youi pathway all day long. 


246 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


Giving as God gives, counting not the cost 
Of broken box or spilled and fragrant oil, 

I know, that, spite of your strong carelessness, 

Life must be worthier, worthier must be toil, 
Touched by such mute, invisible caress. 

One of these days, our weary ways quite trod. 

Made free at last, and unafraid of men, 

I shall draw near, and reach to you my hand ; 

And you ? Ah ! well, we shall be spirits then: 

I think you will be glad, and understand.’^ 

People raved over this song with its odd minor 
cadences, and wondered that so simple a thing 
could be made so touching, and how Miss Miles 
“happened” always on music to suit her words, 
and words to suit her music ; but, spite of our lec- 
ture system and the advance of human intellect, no 
one deduced cause from effect, or drew the un- 
avoidable inference from the premises before them. 
It is alway easier to credit a miracle, or exclaim 
at a portent, than to believe steadfastly in that im- 
mutability of natural law which is so frequently 
an inconvenience to our easy-going theories. 

Family ties have a habit of pulling when you 
least expect it. Helen had few such ties. An 
older sister, married in France, was her only 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


247 


near relation. This summer, nearly a twelve- 
month after the evening at Mrs. Le Clerc’s, 
that sisterly tie asserted itself for the first time. 
Madame Favard wrote urgently to claim a visit. 
Her husband was in bad health, her only daugh- 
ter about to be married : if Helen would come 
to them for a few months, it would be such com- 
fort ! Normandy was pleasanter than Cape May 
or Long Branch ; and for the voyage across the 
Atlantic, what was it nowadays ? — a pleasure 
sail, a mere bagatelle. Surely Helen would 
come } 

“ Of course you’ll go ! ” cried aunts and cousins 
and second-cousins in full chorus. “ It’s an 
opportunity ; it’s a charming plan ; it’s a plain 
duty. Anna needs you: you must go.” Helen 
gave consent. The attractions of home were not 
particularly strong in summer, when the congrega- 
tion of St. James Church were scattered, and its 
pastor off on his long vacation. “ As well Nor- 
mandy as any thing,” she thought, rather wearily. 
An escort was easily found in the persons of 
old Mr. and Mrs. Le Clerc, going abroad in 
the steamship “ St. Malo ” on the 2d of June. No 


248 AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 

better ship existed, people said ; and June was 
the very month for sea-voyaging. 

Helen’s last appearance before sailing was at 
Mrs. Doylston’s ball on the 29th of May, a beau- 
tiful festival in one of the most superb of modern 
houses. Flowers abounded, a carnival of fra- 
grance and color, from the smil ax-wreathed stair- 
case to chimney-pieces converted for the moment 
into banks of roses and stephanotis. But the 
one inimitable glory of the occasion, joy of Mrs. 
Doylston’s heart, and despair of rival florists, was 
a century-plant in full blossom. It stood in the 
middle of the drawing-room, its spike of dusky 
yellow rearing itself from the base of jagged, 
shapeless leaves ; and to every one who entered 
Mrs. Doylston said, “ Be sure you see the aloe. 
It will be a hundred years, you know, before the 
plant flowers again.” 

“ But I thought aloes died as soon as they had 
done blooming,” said May Rogers to Reginald 
Thurston as they stood by the flower. 

“ They do \ or so runs the legend.” 

“ Dear me ! what a waste it seems that a hun- 
dred years should go to perfect a thing which is to 
die as soon as it is fairly made ! ” 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


249 


Helen also was looking at the aloe. She wore 
a white dress that night, and looked more like a 
snow-woman than ever. 

“ I can’t help pitying the aloe,” went on May 
sentimentally. “Of course it wouldn’t blossom 
at all if it knew that its death must be the con- 
sequence.” 

“ Better die, perhaps, than never to blossom.” 

“ Oh ! do you think so ? I don’t. Poor aloe ! ” 

“ I think it is the happiest flower in the world,” 
said Helen in an abrupt tone. She turned as she 
spoke, and walked away. 

“ What a singular person that Miss Miles is ! ” 
remarked pretty May. “I never can make her 
out at all. She is going abroad for the summer, 
you know ; going next week.” 

“ Is she ? So am I.” . 

“ Really ! Tell me about it.” And the conver- 
sation drifted away from Helen. None the less 
her strange, sudden speech had made a disagreea- 
ble impression on Reginald. He would not ask 
the name of the ship in which she was to sail, 
from a disinclination to have it his own. 

Nor was Helen’s feeling one of unmixed joy. 


250 


AJV ALOE BLOSSOM. 


when, the third day out, as she emerged from the 
companion-way under escort of the stewardess, his 
face was the first she saw. Nothing but civilities 
could pass, however. 

“ Miss Miles ! I did not know that we were 
fellow-passengers. Let me place your chair here 
out of the wind.” 

“Thanks,” said Helen in her deep, measured 
voice, hating herself for being unable to say any 
thing more d propos than “ thanks.” 

“ You’d best pin your shawl fast, mum,” advised 
the stewardess. She tucked Helen’s feet in, put 
a rug behind her back, and, having reduced her to 
the woollen chrysalis which must be a sailor’s one 
idea of a fashionable lady, went away. 

“ Have you been sick .? Are you going abroad 
for long ? ” So the conversation went, never get- 
ting an inch beyond the commonplace. Helen 
might have shone more had she not been so busy 
thinking of things which were unsayable. It is 
not easy affecting interest in weather, when all 
the while you are putting inward questions, utter- 
ing secrets past speech. At sea, however, no one 
is blamed for silence. Before long, they ceased to 


AJV ALOE BLOSSOM. 


251 


talk. Reginald held a book in his hand ; but he 
did not read : the width and glory of the tossing 
horizon filled his eyes. And soon he forgot Helen, 
andi into his face came what Rosalie Le Clerc had 
once called his “preaching look,” — a look which 
Helen knew well. 

Rousing suddenly, he caught her eyes fixed 
upon him with an intensity which made him 
start. 

“ What is it ? ” he asked involuntarily. 

“ I beg your pardon ; I did not speak,” answered 
Helen with a fiery blush. 

“ I beg yours ; I must have been half asleep,” 
almost as confusedly. He tried to laugh it off ; 
said something about sea-air and its effects ; but 
the embarrassment continued. Soon he walked 
away. Helen was abjectly miserable. 

“ How did I look ? What did he mean ? ” 
So her restless thoughts ran. Matters were not 
mended by this little episode. Next day Reginald 
avoided her, and she sat cool and unconcerned to 
all outward appearance, but wretched at heart. 

It is not easy, however, to avoid people alto* 
gether in the close quarters of a steamship.. 


252 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


Every day these two met, bowed, spoke, exchanged 
necessary civilities, or sat near each other in mu- 
tual silence. One evening, when they happened 
to be in a dim and shaded corner of the moon-lit 
deck, Helen began to sing. It was the first con- 
scious effort she had ever made to attract the man 
she loved, and it was punished as such efforts 
often are. Her voice blended singularly with the 
waves and the low shudder of the sails. 

“ Come not when I am dead 
To shed thy foolish tears upon my grave, 

Or vex the unquiet dust thou wouldst not save.” 

Never had she poured such passionate meaning 
into the lines. Each note was charged with dis- 
dainful woe, with ghostly tears, — if ghosts weep. 
Reginald could not endure it. At the last, “ But 
thou go by,” he went, jumping suddenly from his 
chair, and vanishing without a word. Helen wept 
bitterly that night. “ Nothing will ever bring us 
any nearer ! ” she sobbed. “ Even in heaven I 
shall be far away fro-m him. I know it ! ” 

How glibly we talk of heaven ! How easily we 
invoke Death ! — and suddenly there he is, in 
dreadful nearness ! In the darkness that followed 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM, 


253 


that moon-setting, in the earliest hours of morn- 
ing, came a sudden and tremendous crash. A 
bark at full sail had struck the “ St. Malo ” amid- 
ships, and in one brief moment every soul on 
board had waked to consciousness of calamity. 

A mass of half-clad, frightened passengers 
thronged the deck. Screams, wails, imprecations, 
filled the air. The ship’s officers lost all self-pos- 
session, and rushed aimlessly to and fro. Through 
the great rent in the steamer’s side the water came 
washing in. In an inconceivably short time the 
fires were extinguished ; the bark which inflicted 
the injury had vanished in the blackness of the 
night. 

“ Lower the boats ! ” “ Lower the boats ! ” shouted 
voices. 

“ Oh ! why don’t they lower them ? ” sobbed 
poor old Mrs. Le Clerc, clutching her husband’s 
arm. 

“ Hush, Mary ! they will.” But precious mo- 
ments passed, the confusion deepening with each, 
and the boats were not lowered. Frantic men 
with clasp-knives flung themselves upon the dav- 
its ; cut, tore, cast wide the ropes. The first boat 


254 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


fell, struck the water, filled, and instantly went 
down. A second, a third, shared the same fate. 
Some of the sailors seized the life-boat and pushed 
off in her, regardless of the frenzied passengers. 
A yard came crashing from above, and smashed 
the launch. 

Some few men worked like heroes, Reginald 
Thurston one of them. Expostulating, direct- 
ing, soothing, encouraging, he rushed to and fro, 
Helen keeping near him like a silent shadow. 
Under his orders, three boats were successfully 
launched ; and women and children, the old 
and the weak, hurried into them. Helen took 
the shawl from her shoulders to put round 
Mrs. Le Clerc, who through all this scene of 
frantic terror had never let go her husband’s 
hand. 

“ Aren’t you coming too ? ” sobbed the old 
lady. 

“ There is no room,” replied Helen briefly as 
the boat pushed off. At that moment a shout 
announced a fresh accident. The last remaining 
boat had capsized, half full of passengers. Forty 
persons remained on the steamer’s deck. The 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 255 

water gained every moment. Helen was the only 
woman left. 

“ You here ! ” said Reginald. “I thought you 
safe in the first boat.” 

“No,” said Helen with a strange, sweet smile, 
which even at that moment astonished him. 

He tied a life-preserver round her waist. 

“You are cold,” he said: “perhaps I can find 
you a shawl.” 

“ Oh ! what does it matter? it will soon be over,” 
she replied with the same quietude. Silence 
followed. A great hush had succeeded the wild 
clamor on the decks. Scarcely a sound was heard 
save the plunge of the waves, or now and then a 
gurgle or hollow boom as the deadly tide poured 
into the depths of the hold. The men stood or 
lay in groups, — some stupefied, others facing the 
situation bravely. Reginald moved from one to 
another, speaking a word here and there, — cheer- 
ful words always, though solemn ones. Helen 
saw him address an old sailor, and apparently 
suggest something ; but the man only shook his 
head. Then he came back to her. 

“ Is there no chance for us ? ” she asked. 


256 


AJV ALOE BLOSSOM. 


“ Humanly speaking, none. I do not see the 
least” The words were firmly spoken : his face 
wore its usual happy look. Worthy living makes 
worthy dying, an old saint has told us. “ Are 
you much afraid?” he inquired. 

“ No, not very,” with a slight shiver. “ But you 
are sure ? — quite sure ? ” 

“ I think so. I see no hope whatever.” 

What a face she turned upon him as he spoke ! 
The binnacle-light flamed full upon her, and 
showed it plainly. Her eyes shone ; a deep flush 
was in the cheeks ; every line was grown inex- 
pressibly tender. 

“You are not frightened!” he exclaimed invol- 
untarily. “ You look happy, — happier than I 
ever saw you look before ! ” 

“I am happy,” she replied in a voice so soft 
that he scarcely recognized it as hers. “ We have 
but a few minutes to live : we are almost spirits ! 
I can tell you now what I never could have told 
had we lived, — that I love you ; have loved you 
for a long time.” 

“ Miss Miles ! You 1 ” 

“Don’t be surprised, don’t be shocked,” she 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


^57 


pleaded. “ Oh, if you knew what it is for me to 
once speak and tell what is in my heart ! All 
my life I have longed to speak, and I never could. 
We are dead now, and at last I can ! ” 

On the edge of eternity, Reginald Thurston was 
conscious of embarrassment at this avowal. Helen 
detected it. 

“You do not know what to say to me,” she 
went on with a sort of disembodied frankness. 
“ Dear friend, say nothing. I am not ashamed 
that I have loved you, and by and by you will 
not be sorry. We are going where love is life 
and law: mine cannot harm or inconvenience you 
there.” 

“ Poor child ! ” he murmured, inexpressibly 
touched. 

“ No, not poor. I have been much happier for 
knowing you ; and now we are going to the next 
world together. I never thought that any thing 
so wonderful as that could happen.” 

A cry came from the forlorn group on the other 
side the deck. 

“ What was that ? What did they say ? ” 

“ I think they said, ‘ A ship ! ’ ” replied Regi- 
nald, straining his eyes into the darkness. 

17 


258 


AN ALOE BLOSSOM. 


“ Oh, surely not ! How could I live now ? ” 
There was real terror in her face. 

“ Do not be frightened,” he said gently. I 
am not worthy of the affection you have given me ; 
but, whether we live or die, I shall always thank 
you for it.” 

She did not answer ; but there was a beautiful 
look in the eyes she turned upon him. 

Just then the ship gave a heavy lurch, a down- 
ward plunge. Reginald clasped Helen’s hand 
firmly. 

he said. 

The next moment they were in the sea. 

Half an hour later he was recovering his senses 
on board the bark, “ Curlew,” the last man rescued 
from the ill-fated steamer. All the interval was 
black eclipse. He only knew that somewhere in 
ocean-depths Helen’s hand had been torn from 
his, and that he rose to the surface without her. 
Poor Helen ! Lonely in death as in life, she had 
gone companionless into the unknown world ! 

This was years ago. Reginald Thurston has 
been a successful man and a happy one. He 
has never married. This is no tribute to Helen’s 


AJV ALOE BLOSSOM. 259 

memory. He thinks, and perhaps rightly, that 
his work is better done without the encumbrance 
of a wife. It may be, that as his hair grows gray, 
and the shadows gradually lengthen over the 
road, his thoughts go back, and he realizes that 
the truest love which blessed his manhood was 
quenched on that wild night beneath Atlantic 
waves. But why d© I say quenched? Do we 
not all believe, with Helen, that “ love is life and 
law ” in the land where she is gone ? And, even 
in that land of compensation, wherever, whatever, 
she may be now, she must be happier, eternity, 
it would seem, must be sweeter, for her one aloe 
blossom of speech; that for once she spoke — just 
once — before she died ! 


POLLY’S PIES. 

A THANKSGIVING EPISODE. 


The clock struck three ; and, like a punctual 
Fate, Polly, shovel in hand, flung wide the oven- 
door. For hours had that mystic laboratory been 
at work, unseen of mortal eye ; and the fragrance, 
compounded of spice, of sugar, of crusted loaf, 
and savory fowl, which now floated forth and filled 
the kitchen, told the result. Far through the 
house spread the delicious whiff ; and a stir and 
bustle overhead announced that some one there 
recognized the signal, and knew that baking was 
done. 

In and out travelled the busy shovel, till the 
inner depth, where yet a red glow lingered, was 
reached ; gave up its last treasure ; and Polly, 
making a fan of her apron, stood before the table 
to inspect the result. There they were, ranged in 
order due, — the loaves brown and white ; the rolls ; 


POLLY'S PIES. 


261 

the crackling pork and beans ; the “ ’lection cake,” 
— that difficult dainty, over whose precarious for- 
tunes she had watched till midnight ; the two 
and twenty pies, gold, brown, and cranberry-red, 
toothsome mince and translucent apple ; custard 
flecked with cinnamon ; tarts open-mouthed, and 
gaping for the friendly jam ; and in the midst, its 
disk of yellow earthen-ware towering above the 
rest, the huge chicken-pie, to whose composition 
had gone such wealth of cream, of celery, of fatted 
pullets, as is not often met with outside the limits 
of the Pursall Farm. With something of the feel- 
ings of a general at the head of his battalion 
Polly reviewed her forces, noting here and there 
a specially crisp edging, and in her own mind 
apportioning this and that to Uncle Nathan 01 
Aunt Sapphira, and these to grace to-morrow’s 
dinner ; for “ to-morrow ” was New England’s 
special day, — that “great day of the feast,” — in 
behalf of which governors are wont to make 
proclamation, and neighbors to vie in friendly zeal 
of housewifely and kind remembrance of those 
who have no portion of their 'own. 

“ Yes,” said Polly, half aloud : “ this will be the 


262 


POLLY'S PIES. 


best for the Bulger children, I guess. The crust 
is a little too brown ; but they won’t mind that ; 
and it’s so big ! Then old Aunt Pigett shall have 
this j and that one I’ll send ” — 

An approaching footstep cut short the soliloquy ; 
and, blushing rosy-red, she caught up one special 
pie, and hurried it into the table-drawer. Next 
moment, her mother entered. 

“Well, Polly, done?” 

“ Yes, mother. Come and look at them.” 

They made a pleasant picture, that mother and 
daughter, as they stood side by side before the 
long ironing-table. Mrs. Pursall was tall and 
erect, the very model of a farmer’s wife. Strong, 
sweet, with face unfurrowed by the wheels of that 
light team. Care and Worry, who drive so heavily 
over female good looks in our country, and smile 
undimmed and bright, it was easy to vision forth 
the bonny bride, who, thirty years before, had 
passed through that door on her wedding-morning, 
to be from thenceforth the joy and comfort of all 
within. And beside her stood the vision renewed 
in early youth, — the same eyes of happy blue, the 
same dimpled cheeks, the same capable hands \ 


POLLY PIES. 


263 


for Mrs. Pursall was a noted housewife, and Polly 
inherited the gift in full measure. It was with 
a little heart-beat that she now watched her moth- 
er’s critical survey, and the nod with which it 
concluded. 

“First-rate, dear: I never saw better. And 
what a lot of them ! Some are to send away, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed ! it would take us a month 
to eat them all. See, mother : these are the ones 
I picked out for ourselves, — for to-morrow and 
Sunday, you know. And the others are for dif- 
ferent folks, — old Katy, and Uncle Nat, and the 
Bulgers, and so on. Don’t you think I was lucky 
in my loaf-cake ? ” 

“ Indeed you were, and it’s a trying cake too. 
Suppose you frost a couple of the loaves for to- 
morrow evening, and put the others away in the 
tin. You must be sure and wrap them up well. 
Did you ask anybody to come in the evening 
besides the Watsons and Jim ? ” 

“ No, ma’am j that is — yes,” began Polly, flush- 
ing and flustered. “ I mean, ,I didn’t ask ; but, 
when Phil Ralston was here in the summer, 


264 


POLLY^S PIES. 


he said he should drop in if he could, and I told 
him we’d be happy to see him. That was what 
I meant, mother.” 

“Oh, well!” replied Mrs. Pursall, too intent 
upon the pies to detect the weak points of this 
lucid explanation, “ that was so long ago, that very 
likely he’s forgot all about it. But Philip is always 
welcome, anyhow.” 

Polly said nothing. In her secret soul she did 
not believe Phil had forgotten. 

How distinctly she remembered about that 
promise I All through the short vacation, so 
vaguely alluded to as “ in the summer,” they had 
been together, Phil and she ; gardening at the rate 
of a mignonette-seed to twenty minutes’ conver- 
sation ; “ botanizing ” (Heaven save the mark I 
Polly hardly knew the difference between a pistil 
and a pistol) ; dawdling at the gate under the 
pink sunset till the moon rose shy and silvery 
above the pink, and Mrs. Pursall’s voice ad- 
dressed them from an upper window on the sub- 
ject of “damp;” “trapesing,” to use the language 
of the same authority, in wet grass, of evenings, 
to search out glow-worms. All these and similar 


POLLY^S PIES. 


265 


pursuits had made it a time of enchantment. 
Phil was an old playmate and neighbor. Nobody 
thought much of their sudden intimacy ; but Polly 
thought a great deal. And the last day of all, 
when she supposed him gone, he had stolen away 
half an hour before train-time, and surprised her 
in the cool well-room, her sleeves rolled up, her 
slender waist enveloped in a white apron, mak- 
ing pies, all unconscious of his proximity. That 
last visit stood in bold relief from others ; for, 
lingering there outside the window, words had been 
partly said, partly looked, which she could never 
forget, though, at the time half frightened, she 
had pretended not to understand them. And at 
last he took to teasing her about the pies, as she 
daintily rolled her paste, and jagged the narrow 
strips for edging. Wouldn’t she make him one — 
all of his own — at Thanksgiving-time, for in- 
stance ? for he was coming home then. Oh, yes ! 
he was sure she would, though she gave no prom- 
ise : he should come in the evening for it. And 
then the time came for him to go ; and, leaning 
through the window, — Polly colored now as she 
thought of it, — he had softly kissed the little 


266 


POLLY'S PIES, 


brown wrist, and departed, his last words being, 
“ If you love me, Polly, don’t forget the pie.” I 
am afraid it was too late for that “ if.” 

For, dreadful as it seems, the Pollys of real 
life do not always wait as the books say they 
should, until a decisive word has been spoken 
before yielding their hearts. Love comes un- 
sought, unseen, as the sun comes, or the dew; 
eyes ask, and looks ask. Prudence tugs feebly 
at the bolt ; but her strength is weakness : open 
flies the door, and Cupid takes possession for bliss 
or bale. Which, in our Polly’s case, it was to be, 
remained to be shown. She feared nothing, poor 
child ! Phil loved her, she was sure ; and all the 
hopeful sky was bright with early dawn. 

“ If you love me.” The words so lightly spoken 
hummed round her like a song as she drew from 
its hiding-place Phil’s pie. Such a pie! — crisp 
as frost ; foam-white, except where heat had kissed 
it into brown ; with edge so trimly, so exactly cut, 
and middle adorned with a wondrous twirl of paste, 
embodying the initial “ P.” A marvellous pie ! — 
a pie to make the mouth water, and put an ap- 
petite under the ribs of Dyspepsia. Long and 


POLLY^S PIES. 


267 


lovingly did Polly gaze on this chef-d^ositvreh^ioxQ 
committing it to the topmost shelf in the pantry ; 
and then, rapidly restoring all to its pristine tidi- 
ness, she fled up stairs : for there was a hat to 
be trimmed ; and, housekeeper though she was, 
Polly was no less a girl, — a girl of eighteen, and, 
what was more, the prettiest girl of eighteen in 
Cohasset. Something was due to this eminent 
position. 

Shut into her room, she sat adjusting the kill- 
ing little feather on the new “turban,” turning 
now and then to survey the effect in a morsel of 
looking-glass ; and by and by, as the drifted gold 
began to gather round the sunset, a sound came 
on the wind, — the distant shriek of a locomotive. 
The train had arrived at “the Junction,” four 
miles away. Far above the woods she could see 
the dim blue smoke. Down went the new hat, 
and a lovely smile parted her lips. That shriek 
meant — Phil ; and I question if Beethoven’s 
finest sonata could at that moment have seemed 
more musical, — so true it is that at times we 
listen with an inward ear to which all sounds are 
melodious if they suggest the thing we love. 


268 


POLLY^S PIES. 


Phil was come ! The thought awoke with her 
next morning, and lent its spring to the many 
small businesses which ushered in the day. It 
was for him she rubbed the crimson apples till 
they shone, heaped the grape-clusters so tastefully, 
and crowned the vases with chrysanthemums and 
gay leaves. The candles she inserted in the tall, 
plated branches should brighten the room when 
he entered, the noble hickory logs should warm, 
the polished andirons please his eye. She lent 
her whole heart to the icing (Phil liked loaf- 
cake). And, if ever the spirit of Lady Mary Wort- 
ley’s sentiment was carried out j if ever a room 
ceased to be a room, a dinner a dinner, — it was 
now, when, transmuted by tender alchemy, the 
old farm-house took on higher meaning, and Mrs. 
Pursall’s nuts and apples became indeed “ the re- 
freshment provided -for a beloved one.” 

All things in order at last, a merry party set off 
for church, — father, mother, brother James, his 
wife and child, — first instalment of the family 
gathering, — and in the midst Polly. The sun 
shone; crisp leaves rustled under foot. In all 
Cohasset was no blither face than that crowned 


POLLY^S PIES. 


269 


by the new turban, as our little maid took her 
seat in the gallery front row as one of the village 
choir. How every thing seemed to smile ! She 
loved the world ; she loved the Governor for 
arranging this delightful day, — this day which 
made so many people happy; which brought 
Phil home. 

It was early. The melodeon was playing a low, 
droning voluntary ; the green curtains were half 
drawn: plenty of chance for the choir to peep 
and to whisper, — a thing all choirs like to do. 

“ I say, Polly, where did you get that feather ? ” 
asked her neighbor. “I only wish somebody 
would give me one. It’s just elegant ! ” 

“ Mother bought it,” said Polly, her eye on the 
door. 

Who are you looking for ? Your ma ? There 
she is now ! What a good-looking woman James’s 
wife is ; isn’t she ? ” 

“I suppose you’ve heard the news, Polly?” 
broke in another whisper from behind, — “ the 
news about Phil Ralston ? ” 

“ No. What do you mean ? ” with sudden 
interest. 


2/0 


POLLY PIES. 


“ He came up last night, you know ; and what 
do you think he brought with him but a wife ! 
The old folks didn’t know a word about it. 
Wasn’t it a fine Thanksgiving surprise?” 

“How did you hear?” asked Polly, faintly, 
with white lips. 

“ Steve saw them, — our Steve, you know. He 
came in the same train ; and there was Phil getting 
out with his wife, and the old squire meeting them, 
and looking so surprised ! And Phil, said he, 
‘ Father, I’ve got a new daughter to introduce to 
you \ ’ and then some more in a low voice, which 
Steve couldn’t hear. And the squire he ’most 
cried ; and he shook hands, and said, ‘ You’re wel- 
come, my dear.’ That was all Steve saw, for he 
had to come away ; but Uncle Reuben was up to 
the squire’s in the evening about a load of hay, 
and Phil’s wife came in, and the squire introduced 
her : ‘ My son’s wife,’ he said ; and he looked real 
pleased, for all he hadn’t been told beforehand. — ■ 
Gracious ! there they are ! — look, Polly, just com- 
ing in ! ” 

For a moment, all swam before Poll^^’s eyes. 
Then the mist cleared again, and she saw Squire 


POLLY'S PIES, 


271 


Ralston’s white head passing up the aisle, fol- 
lowed by his sister, — a dear old woman who lived 
with him and kept his house, — then Phil, and by 
his side a lady. With unnatural fire in her blue 
eyes she scanned the stranger, noting the clear 
olive cheek, the graceful, undulating walk, the gait, 
which, even to her inexperienced vision, seemed 
something rich and foreign. That, then, was 
Phil’s wife, the woman he preferred to all others! 
And, with sudden power of hatred, Polly felt that 
she hated her. All the sweet, even pulses of her 
nature seemed turned into bitterness and fire. 

“ She looks old for Phil, doesn’t she ? ” whis- 
pered, the other girl. 

She did, but how beautiful ! And still, as the 
service went on, what a mockery it all seemed ! — 
the prayer in which she did not join, the sermon 
which spoke of people as thankful and happy. 
She rose with the others ; she bent her head ; and 
all the time something jangled in her ears the one 
phrase, “ Phil is married I Phil is married ! ” till 
it seemed as if she could not bear it. Long after- 
ward, \^en she was happy again, that wretched 
morning would come back to her as visions of 


2/2 


POLLY^S PIES. 


fever to returning health ; little things she was un- 
conscious of noticing, — a late canker-worm walk- 
ing up Mary Jane Oaks’s bonnet-string; the scrap 
of newspaper left on Deacon Bunker’s face from 
his morning shaving, and on which could be 
plainly read, “Lost and Straye,” with the after- 
clew of “heifer” just below. She remembered 
the exact position in which Phil stood as he held 
the hymn-book open for his — wife ! Once he 
half turned, and glanced at the gallery. That was 
too much. Polly drew tight the green curtain, and 
looked no more. 

“ You’re pale to-day,” whispered the friendly 
gossip in the rear, “or else your hat isn’t be- 
coming.” 

This roused her pride. Bad as it was to be 
miserable, it was worse to be pitied. She bit her 
lips till they were red, and (taking advantage of 
the last prayer, I am sorry to say) inflicted upon 
her cheeks a series of furtive pinches, which re- 
stored their bloom. Coming down stairs with the 
rest, she saw, she was sure, Phil lingering as if 
to speak. Cruel ! insulting ! she would not see ! 
Leaning on James’s arm, chatting, laughing, all 


POLLY'S PIES. 


273 


bloom and animation, she brushed past. “ Polly ! ” 
he half exclaimed ; then paused. Backs are some- 
times expressive as faces. Polly’s said, distinctly 
as back could, “ Don’t speak to me ! ” Phil looked 
after them a moment ; then, suppressing a low 
whistle, he plunged his hands into his pockets, 
and took the opposite direction. But soon, re- 
lenting, he was sorry to have done so. “ She 
didn’t see me,” he said to himself : “ that was it. 
Well, I’ll go over this evening, at all events, and 
find out what it means.” 

Oh, what ' a miserable day it was ! All the 
little carefully-prepared-fpr pleasures were as so 
many goads and stings to poor Polly. The turkey 
choked, the children’s merriment stunned her. 
And there were all the relations to be seen to, — 
Aunt Elmira and Uncle Jacob, Cousin Jane with 
her family, and the new baby. But, for all her 
heartache, the little maid was true to herself. Only 
Mrs. Pursall, with mother’s instinct, divined that 
something was the matter. To the rest Polly was 
her usual self, — prettier than usual, if any thing, 
and gayer with that deep flush on her cheeks, 
and the saucy tongue, which, barbed with inward 
18 


274 


POLLY'S PIES. 


misery, had a smart answer ready for all and 
each. 

At last the long dinner ended amidst praises 
loud and high. The fire was replenished, the 
candles lit \ evening and a general romp set in. 
Amidst the bustle, Polly could slip away for a 
moment unperceived. She has “found a thing 
to do,” as Mr. Browning says. 

Climbing a chair in the dark pantry, she felt 
about. Yes, there it was. Just so she had meant 
to come and lift it down for Phil ! With tight-set 
lips, she carried the dish through the hall to the 
back-door, where Jowler, a faithful beast of non- 
descript breed, was wont to lie on a convenient 
door-mat. 

“Jowler, Jowler! — poor fellow!” she said, 
“here’s something for you;” and she held out 
to him Phil’s pie ! 

Never was dog awakened by daintier morsel. 
It was not a very heroic vengeance that ; but some- 
how it suited Polly’s feelings ; and there was a 
certain tragic quality in her manner as she stood 
looking on at the demolishment which would have 
struck an uninterested spectator as infinitely comic. 


POLLY^S PIES. 


275 

As the last crumb vanished, however, — the last 
twirl of the “ P,” — a different mood asserted it- 
self. She put her head in childish fashion against 
the door, and, with the empty pie-plate in her 
hand, began to cry, — a silent, miserable crying, 
with a little dumb moan running through it like a 
child’s. 

It was just then that somebody passing up 
the walk came upon her, — somebody who in 
his haste had come “cross corners,” and leaped 
the garden-fence in his way, — a tall, brown- 
haired fellow, with merry, kind eyes, in which 
wonderment shone as he took in this astonishing 
spectacle. 

“ Hallo ! ” he began : “ why, it’s — bless my 
soul 1 Polly ! Why, Polly, what is the matter, 
dear?” 

At the sound of the voice, Polly started as if 
stung. She gave a little scream ; then, recollect- 
ing herself, would have dashed past him into 
the house ; but a strong hand held her back. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” said Phil. 
“You here, and crying, on Thanksgiving-night, 
— the night when we were going to be so happy ! 


276 


POLLY PIES. 


Tell me what it is, Polly darling! Can’t I help 
you ? Aren’t you glad to see me ? ” 

“ Philip Ralston ! ” said Polly, too furious to 
weigh her words, “you ought to be ashamed of 
yourself ! ” 

“Why?” 

“Why? You ask me that? Because” — sud- 
denly remembering what she implied — “ because 
— you have no right to speak to me — to any- 
body — in that way any more, now that you are 
married 1 ” 

“ Eh ! ’’ ejaculated Philip; “and who says I am 
married ? ” 

Polly, with dilating eyes, perused his face. She 
could not speak. 

“ I’m not married,” went on Phil, “ whoever says 
so ; and I can’t imagine how such a thing got 
about. And that you should ” — He stopped. 

“ The lady in church ? ” gasped Polly. 

“ Well, what about her ? ” said Phil sharply. 
“ That was Will’s wife, — my brother Will, you 
know ; or rather you don’t know, for you were a 
little girl when he went to South America. It 
seems that he ran away with a beauty and heiress, 


POLLY’S PIES. 


277 


and the letter they wrote never reached us ; and 
the first thing I knew, there they were in New 
York, and poor Will miserably knocked up by the 
voyage and a pistol-ball one of her relations sent 
after him. So I didn’t let father know, for fear 
of worrying him ; and, when Will got better, we 
all came up together. That’s the story, Polly; 
but I did think you trusted me a little.” 

“ Oh, I did, I do ! ” sobbing ; “ and I was miser- 
able, Phil ! ” 

“ So this was the cause of Polly’s tears,” went 
on teasing Phil, availing himself, man-like, of the 
opportunity ; “ and that was the reason she turned 
her back this morning. Then Polly does care for 
me a little, — a very little ? ” 

“A very little,” responded Polly, with a faint 
gleam of mischief from under her wet lashes. 

“ Enough to put some confidence in my word 
when I assure her that I shall never marry, — 
never, — unless somebody I know, somebody who 
has proved very faithless, and hurt me not a little 
to-day, should learn to believe me, and like me 
well enough ” — squeezing a little brown hand as 
he spoke — “ to take me for a husband herself ? 


2/8 


POLLY^S PIES. 


What do .you say, dear? ” for the pretty rosy face 
had vanished into the sleeve of his coat j and, for 
all questioning, no answer could be won but a 
little, sweet, half-gurgling, half-sobbing, “ Forgive 
me, Phil ! ” 

Phil did not prove obdurate. Before long the 
face came out of its hiding-place ; and, leaning 
on his arm, Polly stood a happy moment to look 
at the rising moon, and taste the consciousness 
of bliss. Jowler stretched himself luxuriously; 
5’'awned ; then leaping up, his paws on Polly’s 
shoulder, he gave vent to one loud, solitary bark, 
of benediction perhaps, or self-congratulation, 
may be, that this “ consummation devoutly to be 
wished ” did not happen sooner, to the detriment 
of his dinner. A moment, then Phil drew Polly 
into the shelter of the warmed and lighted hall, 
and the door was shut. 

There is another “ young Mrs. Ralston ” now, 
whose pastry is said by the good housewives in 
the neighborhood to “ beat all,” and whose dainty 
ways are very like our Polly’s ; but she always 
assures her husband (whose name is Phil), that, 
if she should live half a century, she shall never. 


POLLY^S PIES. 


279 


never make, or he ever taste, a pie one-half so 
perfect as that which he forfeited by coming ten 
minutes late one Thanksgiving-evening. And he 
says — But no matter what he says. 


THE LITTLE RED. 


Rosamund Bunker .owed her pretty and peculiar 
name to the late Miss Edgeworth, whose tale, so 
called, in a binding of shiny purple-brown cambric, 
chanced to fall into Mrs. Bunker’s way at the pre- 
cise moment when it became needful to choose a 
name for Baby, then four weeks old. It sounded 
a cumbrous mouthful enough when the blue-eyed 
mite was solemnly invested therewith in the village 
church ; but Mrs. Bunker liked the sound and gave 
it full value, never shortening it to Rose ” or 
“ Rosey,” as a feebler-minded mother might. Poor 
woman ! Neither name, nor baby, nor motherhood 
was of long continuance to her. She died eighteen 
months later, and Squire Bunker, whom the neigh- 
bors had at once pronounced “ not the kind to stay 
a widower long,” justified their suspicions by pres- 
ently equipping Baby Rosamund with a step-mother. 


THE LITTLE RED. 


281 


in the person of his late wife’s cousin, Sophia Ketell, 
— a stirring, driving spinster, full of work and eager 
for a chance to show the extent of the energies 
latent within her. Fortunately, these energies took 
a turn favorable to her step-child. From the be- 
ginning Baby was beautifully kept and cared for ; 
and, no other claimant appearing to dispute pos- 
session, she kept her place of first importance in the 
ample home, and was never conscious of the real loss 
sustained by her helpless infancy. 

Time travels fast, even with babies. Before long 
Rosamund was a little girl ; then a tall one, with 
long lashes shading a pair of arch eyes, peach-bloom 
on cheeks and rose-bloom on smiling lips, — a girl 
whom her pretty name seemed exactly to suit and 
fit ; next she was a woman grown and engaged to be 
married ; all these transformations taking her step- 
mother by surprise from their rapidity. Mothers 
are often surprised in this way, I think, and not 
always happily so. A baby is a little, pure, safe- 
folded pearl, all one’s own. To have it alter, de- 
velop, grow away from one, become itself mother- 
of-pearl perhaps, cannot be all satisfaction, though 
the maternal oyster gets accustomed to the trans- 


282 


THE LITTLE RED. 


formation and reconciled, as we do in time to all 
mortal changes. 

Rosamund’s “ Fi — ancy,” as old Mrs. Nilsom 
was used to designate the article (Mark Hopkins, 
by name), was a steady, good-looking, manly young 
fellow, about three years older than herself. They 
had played together when children, had always liked 
each other best, and since the age of ten Mark had 
steadfastly intended to marry Rosamund and nobody 
else. His people were well known and respectable, 
— not a tragedy or a mystery among them; his 
salary of fifteen hundred dollars, as overseer of the 
Lake Company’s Cotton Mill, was enough to start 
on comfortably ; his father had “ deeded ” him a 
house and lot on the outskirts of the village ; every- 
body concerned approved of the ^engagement ; in 
short, there never was an affair so devoid of the ele- 
ments which make up romance or more comfortably 
furnished with those which go for every-day happi- 
ness. No bad substitute, after all, for people whose 
destiny does not allow them to command the higher 
fates. 

It would not have been easy, however, to con- 
vince Mark and Rosamund of the disadvantages 


THE LITTLE RED. 


283 


of their prosperity. To them their little heart-story 
was not in the least commonplace, — full of stir, on 
the contrary, and interest ; while over all their way 
lay the purple light which glorifies even the humblest 
human love. How delightful it was to be first to 
each other, and for the moment to everybody else ; 
to make plans, to talk them over on the doorstep 
in the dewy evenings ; to walk up to the little house 
which was to be future home, and discuss where 
things should stand and where they should hang, 
which room should be for sitting and which for 
dining, though, sooth to say, the dimensions of the 
cottage did not admit of wide choice. But with 
the agitation of these practical questions difficulties 
began ; for “ furnishing ” nowadays means or may 
mean a great many different things \ and, what with 
their own indecisions and the conflicting advice of 
half a dozen self-elected counsellors, they were some- 
times fairly at their wit’s end how best to spend the 
eight hundred dollars set aside by Squire Bunker for 
their plenishing ; a sum which, inadequate as it may 
seem, was held in that quiet place and by those 
quiet people as ample and liberal provision. 

Both Rosamund and her lover were agreed in the 
determination to have things pleasant ” in their 


284 


THE LITTLE RED. 


new home ; but neither had clear notions of the 
process by which pleasantness is arrived at. Mrs. 
Bunker’s views were more decided. They included 
a “best room,” carpeted in three-ply, or Brussels 
perhaps, as “ it wouldn’t be used to speak of ; ” a 
“set” of mahogany-and-haircloth furniture; Not- 
tingham lace curtains, tied back with green gimp ; 
“ lamberkins ” of reps to match ; and a “ what-not,” 
full of odds and ends in bisque and china, family 
daguerreotypes, lamp-mats, and bead baskets. To 
these items Mrs. Bunker added, in her own mind, 
closely shuttered windows, a daily dusting, a smell 
of varnish and disuse, and a sort of moral lion tied 
to the door-knob, which should protect the apart- 
ment from too frequent invasion. Good house- 
keepers in rural districts are not infrequently found 
enamoured of a room of this sort. It is a Shekinah 
into which their orderly souls love to retreat fron> 
the wear and tear of every day. Their bodies rarely 
enter, except for purposes of tidying-up and stated 
purification ; but there is inward satisfaction in the 
thought that the room is there. Not to have a 
“ best room ” is in the opinion of these good ladies 
“ shiftless.” It belongs to a loose-principled order 
of things and experiences, such as using company 


THE LITTLE RED. 285 

china when there is no company, or the indiscrimi- 
nate employment of a Sunday bonnet. 

On the subject of a “ best room ” Rosamund was 
at variance with her step-mother. Like many an- 
other petted daughter, she had been conscious of 
momentary revolt, periods during which she had 
whispered to herself : “ If I ever have a house of 
my own, this shall be different.” But, now that 
opportunity was come, revolt seemed less easy. 
Her inexperience, her doubtfulness as to her own 
desires, as well as her mother’s positive convictions 
on the subject, were against the easy expression of 
free will; and she listened dutifully, if not quite 
happily, when Mrs. Bunker said : — 

“ I’ve made up my mind that you can’t do better 
than take that carpet at Russell’s, Rosy. It’s five 
cents a yard cheaper than those Brussels samples 
your Aunt Jane sent from Boston, and the quality is 
every bit as good. I’m certain of that, for I ravelled 
out a little bit from the end. If I was you, I’d step 
down this very afternoon and get it. Miss Par- 
menter was a-considerin’ of it the other day for her 
best room, and if you ain’t sharp about it, it’ll all 
be snapped up and you’ll lose the chance.” 


286 


THE LITTLE RED. 


It isn’t very pretty, I think,” ventured Rosa- 
mund. ‘‘ The figure is so big.” 

“ I’ve yet to see a medallion carpet where the 
figure isn’t big,” retorted Mrs. Bunker. “ What is 
there to complain of in it? It is well colored — 
good wearing colors, too — and of first-rate quality 
and reasonable ; and I call it sightly enough for 
anybody’s house. I don’t see what more you could 
ask. It’s the sort of carpet that’ll last for years, if 
you’re careful of it. How many yards was it you 
calculated for?” 

Thirty-six, Mark said ; but — ” 

Thirty-six yards at one seventy-five — that’s 
sixty-three dollars,” continued Mrs. Bunker, heed- 
less of “ buts.” “Then that set of mahogany — 
that was seventy-five ; wasn’t it? You’d better 
get a pencil and set it down.” She dictated, and 
the reluctant Rosamund wrote, as follows : — 


Carpet ^63 

Set of furniture 75 

What-not 8 

Curtains (3 windows) 9 

Reps 6 

Stove 8 


THE LITTLE RED. 


287 


‘‘ Oh, dear ! All that ! ” cried Rosamund. “Why, 
I shall hardly have anything left for the rest of the 
house.” 

“ Oh, yes, you will. The parlor is the chief ex- 
pense, of course. You don’t want much for the 
dining-room, — just a table and chairs and a drug- 
get ; and you must get some sort of cheap sets for 
up-stairs. Kitchen things cost a deal, as you will 
find.” 

“ I would rather make out a regular list before I 
buy anything,” said Rosamund, prudently. “ How 
many milk-pans do I need, mother? And is one 
wash-tub enough, or must I get two? ” 

Item by item went down. Rosamund added up 
the total and shook her head. How much it all 
came to ! So much more than she had expected. 
She should have nothing left for any of her own 
little private fancies. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she sighed. “ And what ugly, un- 
interesting things they all are ! I wanted a straw 
work-table so much, and hanging baskets, and a 
fernery, and a hammock for the piazza. But I must 
have tin pans, and a gridiron, and a nutmeg-grater, 
and all that ; and mother’ll be sure to say that those 


288 


THE LITTLE RED. 


others are not necessary. It is too bad. I can’t 
contradict her ; and yet I feel as though I ?ieeded 
the straw work-basket a great deal more than I do a 
gridiron.” 

Her perplexities were increased when, later in the 
day, Fanny Hopkins, Mark’s youngest sister, came 
to call, bringing with her a friend, just arrived from 
Boston on a visit. The conversation turned on fur- 
niture, as Rosamund’s conversations were apt to turn 
just then, and she showed her list. To her surprise, 
the girls both laughed. 

Mahogany ! Haircloth ! Why, when did you 
come out of the Ark, my dear?” asked Fanny. 
“ Nobody gets that sort of things nowadays. They 
are quite gone by.” 

‘‘What do they get, then?” asked innocent 
Rosamund. 

“Oh, cretonne, and rugs, and bamboo chairs, 
and French wall-papers with flower patterns. There 
is a lovely one at Russell’s now, — pearl-gray with 
pink and white morning-glories on it. Get that for 
your parlor, Rosamund. It would be delicious with 
cretonne to match. My ! Don’t I wish I had a 
house to fit up ! I wouldn’t have one stiff thing in 


THE LITTLE RED. 


289 


it; but all easy-chairs and cushions, and flowery 
patterns, and soft pinks and blues. Do try my plan. 
I am sure you would like it better than that horrid 
mahogany. Don’t you agree with me, Helen ? ” 
turning to her friend. 

“ I’m not sure that I do. I’m rather tired of 
flower patterns and cretonnes,” replied that young 
lady, to Fanny’s discomfiture as well as surprise. 
Helen Danbury was considered artistic,” and her 
words had weight. 

“ If it were my house,” she went on, calmly, “ I 
should try for subdued tints. Sage-green, perhaps, 
in one room, and blue-gray in the other. I would 
make the inside as much like one of those delightful 
dull old India shawls which our grandmothers used 
to wear as I possibly could. Then each point of 
bright color which I added would count for value. 
I would put a line of Japanese fans up each corner, 
and have a couple of those Japanese curtains, and 
perhaps one screen, and put a blue platter or two 
on the wall. They would be very effective against 
the sage.” 

‘‘ Platters on the wall ! ” thought Rosamund. 
“ What would mother say ? ” But she proceeded 

19 


290 


THE LITTLE RED. 


aloud : You know, Fanny, I have only got so 
much money to spend, and I mustn’t run over. 
Now here’s a pencil. Please make a list of your 
things and what they would cost.” 

So Fanny, nothing loath, took the pencil and 
began : — 

“ Paper, sixty cents a roll. How many rolls ? ” 

‘‘ Fifteen,” said Rosamund. 

Paper for parlor, nine dollars.” 

“ It will cost more than that when you include 
the putting on,” interposed Miss Danbury. 

“Well, then, we’ll call it fifteen. What comes 
next? ” 

“ Rugs? ” suggested Rosamund. 

“They are twenty-five dollars apiece. You ought 
to have three, at least.” 

“ Dear ! dear ! More than a carpet. And what 
shall we do with the rest of the floor? I suppose 
the rugs won’t cover it all.” 

“ Stain and wax,” said Helen Danbury. 

“ Oh ! And the chairs and sofas, Fanny? ” 

“Well, I’d have two lounges and ever so many 
easy-chairs, and cretonne curtains, and a looking- 
glass with cunning chintz ruffles all round it, and — ” 


THE LITTLE RED. 


291 


“ Stop ! stop ! ” cried Rosamund. My money 
won’t buy half that, Fanny. Don’t put such ideas 
into my head. You are an extravagant wretch, and 
I mustn’t listen to you. Is your plan any less 
expensive. Miss Danbury?” 

I am afraid not,” thoughtfully. Good things 
are never cheap. It is impossible they should be. 
But, in my opinion, it is better to buy a little and 
have it all first-rate than to get all at once of a 
poorer sort.” 

But how could we get along meanwhile ? We 
must have chairs and tables and beds at once, you 
see,” said Rosamund. 

“ I would wait and pick up things little by 
little,” replied Miss Danbury, evasively. Do it 
gradually.” 

‘‘ How can I, up here in Chesuck ? There isn’t 
anything to pick up.” 

It seems to me you might make a beginning even 
here in Chesuck? Some of these country garrets 
are rich in treasures. Hasn’t your mother got an 
old brass warming-pan, for example? ” 

Rosamund stared. Yes.” 

‘‘There ! I told you so! ” triumphantly. “That’s 


292 


THE LITTLE RED. 


one object to begin with. The dull yellow will look 
beautifully against your sage background. I con- 
gratulate you.” 

‘‘ Mother’d give it to me in a minute, I know,” 
said Rosamund. ‘‘But I can’t think what you 
mean. What use could it be ? ” 

“ Use? No ! But don’t you see that it is a de- 
lightful thing to look at ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” replied puzzled Rosamund. 
“We used to pop corn in it when I was little ; but 
I never cared much about it except for that.” 

Miss Danbury smiled superior, but attempted no 
further explanation. “What is the use? ” she asked 
herself. “ Such things cannot be taught in a minute. 
You cannot force a taste.” She and Fanny went 
away soon, leaving Rosamund to her reflections and 
her lists. These were interrupted by the appear- 
ance of Mrs. Treddle, wife of the senior deacon in 
the church to which the Bunkers belonged, — a 
woman of zeal, instant in season and out. Rosa- 
mund welcomed her shyly. She was rather afraid 
of Mrs. Treddle. 

“ I’ll call mother,” she said. “ She’s piecing a 
quilt for me up-stairs and doesn’t know you’re here. 


THE LITTLE RED. 293 

The girls came in and we were talking about furni- 
ture, and I had no idea how time was going.” 

Yes, I heard you were going to housekeeping,” 
said the deacon’s wife. “ It ’s that red house which 
the Allens had last year; isn’t it? Well, I hope 
you’ll be very comfortable in it. Have you been 
buying furniture, did yoij say ? ” 

“Not yet; only talking about it,” explained 
Rosamund, with her pretty blush. “ Mother made 
me out a list ; and then Fanny Hopkins made out 
another; and Miss Danbury, who is staying with 
her, wanted me to do something else quite different. 
It’s very puzzling.” 

“ I should think the principal puzzle would be 
with your conscience,” said Mrs. Treddle, taking the 
lists from her hand and glancing over them. “ One 
seems to me just as objectionable as the other. Both 
are full of things which a right-minded person would 
find it easy to do without. Rosamund, there is a 
world lying in wickedness just beyond these lives 
of ours. How can you reconcile it with your princi- 
ples to spend money on unnecessary things which 
is so dreadfully needed elsewhere ? Have you re- 
flected on this, Rosamund ? ” 


294 


THE LITTLE RED. 


‘‘No,” said Rosamund, abashed. “ Tm afraid I 
haven’t, Mrs. Treddle. Father gave me the money 
for my house, and all I’ve thought about was how 
best to spend it.” 

“ I know. He gave you eight hundred dollars,” 
went on Mrs. Treddle. “ The deacon told me ; and 
I said at once, Rosamund , Bunker’ll never spend 
all that for furniture. She’s a conscientious girl, as 
girls go, and she’ll save at least a third and cast it 
into the treasury of the Lord.” Mrs. Treddle’s fin- 
gers extended and expanded as she spoke. Rosa- 
mund felt uncomfortable. She did not know what 
to say. Her step-mother’s entrance relieved her, 
and while the elder ladies greeted one another she 
effected an escape, taking her lists with her. Mark, 
coming in half an hour later, found her pensively 
considering them in the porch of the side door. 

“ It’s so hard to know what to do,” she explained. 
“ Mother is sure I ought to have this ; and your 
sister Fanny that ; and Miss Danbury wants us to 
furnish with Japanese fans and a warming-pan ; and 
Mrs. Treddle says it’s wrong to have anything at all, 
and we ought to give the money to the heathen. 
Which shall we do, Mark ; or sha’n’t we do any of 


THE LITTLE RED. 


295 


them ? ” And she nestled closer within his arm as 
she spoke, and felt the comfort which comes from 
casting a perplexity upon a wiser and dearer self. 

“ Well, we certainly won’t give the money to the 
heathen,” laughed Mark ; “ and we won’t limit our- 
selves to a warming-pan. Those two things are 
certain. For the rest, I don’t know. Only let’s 
be cosey. You know how to bring that about bet- 
ter than I do, I expect. All women know; don’t 
they? Cosey, home-y, bright, — you understand 
what I mean ; with always a pleasant look, so that 
our friends will like to drop in upon us, if only to 
see what a good time we are having. The details 
don’t matter a bit, it seems to me ; and don’t fret 
or look worried, my darling. It’s sure to come all 
right in the end.” 

This was comfortable philosophy, but did not 
materially conduce to the settlement of Rosamund’s 
perplexities. It was very nice, however, to sit in the 
twilight and be petted by Mark, and for a while she 
let the vexing question rest. At last a bright thought 
came to her, and lifting her head with a sigh of relief, 
she said, — 

‘‘Mark, let’s leave it all till Aunt Hjtty comes. 


296 


THE LITTLE RED. 


She really has a cosey house, the only cosey house 
I ever saw. It’s a little bit of a place, and Aunty 
never has had much money to get things with, I 
know; but for all that it’s somehow delightful. 
Everybody thinks so. Let’s wait for her. She’ll 
tell us how she did it and help us to fix ours ; I 
know she will. It’s only till Monday. She’s com- 
ing then to stay till after — the 2 2d.” A blush 
rounded the sentence like a rosy period. Would 
you mind waiting? ” coaxingly. 

No. Mark didn’t “mind” in the least. What 
Mark would, under such circumstances ? So it was 
decided that they should wait. 

Aunt Hitty, whom no one ever called by her true 
name of Mehitable, was the only sister of the first 
Mrs. Bunker, and, as such, had advisory claims 
which even that lady’s successor must needs allow. 
An old maid, of a delightful type now growing rare, 
but of which specimens still exist ; guiltless of “ cul- 
ture ” in the modern sense ; unvexed by problems 
of “ sphere,” “ influence,” or higher education ; a 
cheery, kindly, crotchety creature, full of “ faculty ; ” 
versed in all clever household devices, with plenty 
of fresh impulse and some girlish enthusiasms still 


THE LITTLE RED, 


297 


left in her, and girlish fun enough to enable her to 
laugh at her own whims and oddities, while still per- 
tinaciously clinging to them, — Aunt Hitty was the 
natural refuge of everybody in need of a lift or a 
helping hand. People said it was a thousand pities 
that she had not married ; but this was a mistake, 
it seems to me. Her influence radiated a thousand- 
fold further from the standpoint of a single woman. 
Old maids like herself are the corps de reserve of 
an overtaxed world. Their- leisure goes to the per- 
fecting of other people’s unfinished work. In their 
quiet solitudes, as in the calm hush of October days, 
belated fruits may ripen and grow sweet. Rosa- 
mund had always felt instinctive trust of Aunt 
Kitty’s helpful capacities, and in this, the first per- 
sonal puzzle of her life, she turned to her with con- 
fidence, sure of help and comfort. 

I have such a quantity of things to ask you 
about,” said Rosamund, the day after her aunt’s 
arrival. Now, Aunty, you want to see my house, 
I know, and I want to see you see it ; so let us slip 
off quietly and go down there by ourselves and have 
a good time. Will you, Aunt Hitty, and tell me 
how to fix it and make it pretty, like yours?” 


298 


THE LITTLE RED. 


« Why, of course I will. Come along ! ” replied 
Aunt Hitty, with all the zest of a school-girl in her 
tones. 

Houses have their moments, like human faces, 
and “ The Little Red,” as Mark had christened it, 
was looking its very best as they came upon it. It 
stood in a grassy yard, which already boasted sev- 
eral well-grown trees, — spruces, a balsam fir, and a 
larch, set now with pale yellow needles. Over the 
porch and the east gable of the house hung a dra- 
pery of wine-colored Virginia creepers ; and behind, 
within easy distance, was a belt of woodland, tinted 
in soft autumn reds and golds. Rosamund, with -a 
gentle pride of possession, opened the gate and led 
the way to the front door. It was a very “ Little 
Red,” indeed, and in no wise remarkable. Every 
country town holds its counterpart. The door 
opened into a little entry, with a staircase. On the 
left was a square parlor, of good size ; behind, and 
occupying the breadth of the house, a dining-room, 
with windows at either end : further still, pantries, 
a kitchen, and a tiny “ sink-room.” Up-stairs were 
bedrooms, — two larger, two smaller, with a couple 
of big closets. Above all, an open attic. The vine- 


THE LITTLE RED. 


299 


hung piazza lay toward the north, a fact which Aunt 
Hitty noted with satisfaction, as well as the other 
fact that parlor and dining-room had a south window 
apiece. 

“ That is famous,” she said. “ Plenty of sunshine. 
Rosy. Your plants and baskets will do well here.” 

“ Oh,” said Rosamund, her face falling, “ I 
wanted some plants so much. Aunty, and baskets 
and a fernery ; but I’m afraid I can’t have any, — at 
least, this winter. All my money is wanted for other 
things.” 

‘‘ Money ! Good gracious ! What do you want 
money for? Get them without.” 

But where ? How can I ? ” 

There D' responded Aunt Hitty, sweeping a 
royal gesture toward the woods. “ Oh, you may 
laugh. Rosy ; but you’ve no idea yet of what those 
woods are going to be to you, or what the gain is 
of having them so near. A wood like that is a 
storehouse of delightful possibilities. You never 
come to the end of what it can furnish ; and noth- 
ing to pay, either.” 

“ Aunty ! you sound enchanting. But I don’t 
quite — ” 


300 


THE LITTLE RED, 


Wait ! ” replied her aunt, oracularly. Now, 
Rosy- Posy, explain to me about this dear little box. 
Have you begun to furnish yet? ” 

No, Aunty. We waited for you. But here is 
mother’s list.” 

Aunt Kitty’s nose wrinkled comically as she read. 

“ I see,” she remarked. “ The old story. All 
house and no home.” 

‘‘Now what do you mean. Aunty? Please tell 
me exactly, for it seems like something nice, which 
we ought to know about. Mark and I want a home. 
We don’t want a house only. I wish you would 
explain.” 

“ Your mother’s a good, sensible woman enough,” 
began Miss Hitty, cautiously. “ I’ve considerable 
respect for her judgment in many things ; but. Rosy, 
I don’t think she has ever known how to make a 
house look pleasant. Now, this list ; if you follow 
it, your house will be just such a house as hers is. 
Here, for instance, ‘ Carpet, sixty-five dollars.’ Do 
you mean to shut this parlor up and never use it? 
It takes a great deal of strength of mind, let me tell 
you, to throw blinds open and let the sun in on 
sixty-five dollars’ worth of carpet.” 


THE LITTLE RED, 


301 


“ And it’s such an ugly carpet, too, Aunty.” 

“ Mercy ! What do you get it for, then? ” 

“ I don’t know. Mother said it was a bargain, 
and that I’d lose the chance.” 

“That word ‘bargain’ has spoiled more houses 
than one,” interrupted Aunt Hitty. Nothing is a 
bargain if you don’t like it and don’t want it. I’d 
rather have a drugget that suited me than a ‘ bar- 
gain’ in Brussels, at the same price, that didn’t. 
‘Mahogany set.’ Why a set? Do you like them 
so much. Rosy ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think I do ; but mother said — 
Here’s Fanny Hopkins’s list. Aunty. See if it is 
any better.” 

“ Well, yes ; provided you and Mark were rich 
enough to recover and refurnish every second year,” 
pronounced Aunt Hitty. “ These delicate light 
tints are very pretty at first ; but they don’t last. I 
couldn’t recommend them to you. Rosy, if you 
want things which will wear well.” 

“ Oh, I do ! We shall never have any money 
to refurnish with, I suppose. Then Miss Danbury, 
she advised me to get sage-green papers and colors 
like old faded shawls. She said they would make 


302 


THE LITTLE RED, 


all the bright things in the room look brighter. Do 
you think they would ? ” 

There’s a certain truth in that theory,” replied 
Aunt Hitty; ‘‘but then there’s the danger of being 
gloomy. Now, Rosamund, sit down on this box, 
and I’ll deliver to you a brief lecture on house- 
furnishing, — give you my views, in short. I dare say 
they’re wrong here and there ; but I’m pretty sure 
they’re not very wrong. And, at all events, they 
are based on experience, which is a good point to 
begin with. It’s easy to make theories about mat- 
ters of taste ; but there ’s nothing like living with a 
thing for two or three years, if you want to prove 
how you like it. All the theory in creation can’t 
compare with it. The most important thing about 
any home, it seems to me, is that it shall be cheer- 
ful. Nothing makes up for the lack of that. How- 
ever beautiful your papers may be, if they darken 
too much, they are a mistake ; if it’s too light and 
gaudy, that is another mistake. There’s no cheer- 
fulness in a spotty glare, though some folks seem to 
think so. The next most important thing is that 
a home shall be usable ; and the third, that it shall 
be harmonious^ and the rooms suit with each other 


THE LITTLE RED. 


303 


and the people who are to live in them. All the 
rest is matter of detail ; though I agree with Miss 
Danbury in thinking that wall-papers and carpets 
ought to be chosen as backgrounds, and not made 
too prominent of themselves. There, that was quite 
a long discourse ; but it’s finished now. Let me 
see the list again. ‘ Best china,’ ‘ common china.’ 
Why do you get two separate sets. Rosy?” 

Doesn’t everybody have two ? Mother said so.” 

“ I suppose they do,” viciously. “ And that’s the 
reason why folks don’t ask their friends to stay to 
tea oftener. If you’ve got to climb a chair and 
take the best cups and saucers down from a top 
shelf, you won’t be hospitable any oftener than you 
can help ; depend upon it. It’s not in human na- 
ture to take so much trouble. You’ll find it so.” 

“ What shall I do, then?” 

Strike an average. Get one good, pretty, useful 
set ; and have your every-day table nice enough to 
ask a friend to sit down to at any time. That’s my 
way.” 

Aunty, I’ll do it. But about rooms. What 
would you get for this parlor, if it were yours ? What 
sort of a carpet, and what sort of paper. Aunty?” 


304 


THE LITTLE RED. 


Aunt Hitty studied in silence for a while. 

If it were mine/’ she said slowly, “ I think I 
should get a small-figured, soft, light-red paper, 
which would look plain when you didn’t examine 
closely. And — yes — a dark-blue ingrain carpet, 
with a little set pattern. Then for the dining-room, 
as the two open together, I’d have a pale cream- 
brown paper and a brown, mixy carpet.” 

But, Aunty, I didn’t mean to paper any room 
but this. We can’t afford it.” 

“ Why not, if you content yourselves with twenty- 
five-cent papers, which were what I was thinking of? 
You can get extremely pretty ones, and good too, 
for that price nowadays ; and if you put them on 
yourself, you can paper the whole house with the 
price of one expensive hanging. Don’t know how ? 
I’ll show you. It’s very easy. I always do mine.” 

This is like a fairy story,” cried Rosamund, with a 
dazzled laugh. “ I do love papers so ; and to have 
it made possible to do the whole house ! Aunty, 
it is too delightful ! Do make out a list for me. 
I’m so afraid you’ll find that you are mistaken.” 

The first item on Aunt Kitty’s list was this ; 
“Twelve yards ingrain carpet, for parlor, $13.50.” 


THE LITTLE RED. 


305 


But, Aunty, the room takes thirty-five yards.” 

“ Yes, if you buy Brussels and cover the whole 
floor. My calculation is for a square rug, which 
will leave a strip of about two feet wide all round 
the room bare. Don’t you see, your sofa and your 
book-case and so on all naturally stand on this strip ? 
Why should you pay for carpet to cover a place 
which your foot never touches ? Besides, there are 
a thousand advantages of having carpets of this 
shape, besides cheapness. They are cleaner ; dust 
does not collect under them, as under the other kind 
of carpet. They are easily swept or taken up for 
beating. They can be changed from room to room 
without trouble, or shifted to new positions. New 
breadths can be put in or old ones transposed. In 
short, I can’t tell you all ; but it seems to me that 
it saves one-third of the trouble of housekeeping to 
have them ; and I’ve tried both ways.” 

“ But doesn’t the bare floor look ugly ? ” 

Oh, that is easily arranged. I shall stain and 
oil the edges for you.” 

‘‘Will you, really?” cried Rosamund, joyfully. 
“Then I’ll have the square carpets. Only, what 
will mother say? She’ll think the world is coming 


20 


3o6 


THE LITTLE RED. 


to an end, I’m afraid. Aunty, I’ve just thought of 
something. Do you suppose mother would feel 
hurt? I’d like to do the house for a surprise, and 
not have any one see it, but just you and Mark and 
me, till it’s all done. I’m almost sure they would 
like it then. Could we, do you think ? ” 

We’ll see about it,” said Aunt Hitty. It 
won’t do to have your mother feel hurt or left out, 
Rosamund.” 

Circumstances were unexpectedly favorable to 
Rosamund's plan, for Squire Bunker broke down 
the very next day with an attack of rheumatic 
fever ; and, what with nursing him, marking Rosa- 
mund’s house-linen, piecing bedquilts, and sub- 
jecting her whole domain to that thorough and 
exhaustive house-cleaning without which, in her 
opinion, no wedding could properly take place, Mrs. 
Bunker found her hands so over-full that she willingly 
acquiesced in the girl’s wish for a surprise.” 

“ Kitty’s your own aunt, and a real sensible 
woman besides,” she said. ‘‘ She’s a right to advise ; 
and, so long as she’s here and you’re satisfied so. 
I’ll leave it to her and welcome.” 

“ Only you must let me come to you now and then 


THE LITTLE RED. 307 

for a little advice, if I am puzzled,” added Rosamund, 
sweetly. 

So the matter was amicably settled. What a busy 
three weeks followed ! Every day and all day long, 
and sometimes into the evening as well, the trio 
labored over the adornment of The Little Red.” 
I say trio, for Mark joined them at every spare mo- 
ment which he could command. Hour by hour, 
under their hands, the future home seemed to bud 
out of the house like a flower from its imprisoning 
calyx. The dull-red and cream-brown papers were 
chosen and put upon the walls, with a pretty blue 
and what Aunt Hitty called a “ warm gray ” for the 
bedrooms, and in the entries a tiled pattern in wood 
colors. Next, the ingrain squares, neatly bound, 
were fastened on the floors, with brass-headed tacks, 
so as exactly to meet the walnut-stained edges. And 
at once the correctness of Aunt Hitty’s taste became 
evident; for the rooms supplemented each other 
like a chord in harmony, and looking across the soft 
illuminated reds and blues of the one into the clear 
cream-brown tints of the other was like gazing at 
sunshine from under shade. Both seemed furnished 
already, without any furniture in them, Rosamund 


3o8 


THE LITTLE RED. 


said ; and each object placed against the well-chosen 
background showed to advantage and seemed to 
count for more than its real worth. 

Aunt Hitty was a first-rate upholsterer. Under 
her instructions, Rosamund soon developed into a 
capable assistant. A comfortable, roomy lounge 
and three stuffed chairs were bought “ in the mus- 
lin,” to use the professional phrase ; a few lengths 
of burlaps and thick-ribbed, deep-hued chintzes — 
not alike, for Aunt Hitty saw no use in uniformity, 
but suiting each other and the room — were pro- 
vided ; in and out went the busy needles, and pres- 
ently all were upholstered, at two-thirds of the shop 
price for the same thing. A rocking-chair in wicker 
and a low one in straw ; a Shaker,” with wide 
arms ; and a couple of light cane-seated chairs made 
up the furniture ; with the addition of a big, gener- 
ous table and two smaller ones, — the former covered 
with a square of thick tapestry cloth, in mingled 
blue, crimson, black, and gold. The cloth was nearly 
two yards wide, and cost six dollars the yard ; which 
would have been an extravagance, except that, per 
contra, the table was bought at an auction, at the 
cost of seventy-five cents. It was a mahogany 


THE LITTLE RED. 


309 


table, with substantial, rather handsome legs and a 
smallish, shabby top. The legs Aunt Hitty took in 
hand, rubbed, oiled, and varnished ; Mark, under 
her directions, made and screwed on a large square 
top of pine boards; the cloth was added; and lo ! 
a delightfully ample and important-looking article, 
round which Rosamund danced with exultation, 
crying out : — 

‘‘ And it only comes to eleven thirty ! Think of 
that ! And that horrid little mahogany table, with a 
marble top, was twelve. Oh, Aunty, Aunty, you’re 
the best help that ever was seen ! ” 

The auction which resulted in the purchase of 
this table proved a real gold mine to our frugal 
nest-builders. It was the clearing out of an old 
dwelling, long inhabited by a thrifty housekeeper, 
whose furniture dated back to the solid days when 
glue and veneering were little known. Among the 
things purchased were a couple of bedroom sets, 
originally maple, but so very shabby that Rosa- 
mund, for once, distrusted Aunt Kitty’s advice to 
buy. 

“ They are so stained and scratched, Aunty. Are 
you sure I would better ? ” 


310 


THE LITTLE RED. 


Quite sure, if they go cheap.” 

So Rosamund bid them in for seven dollars and 
a half apiece. Aunt Hitty mixed a pot of carefully 
compounded paint, shut herself up with them for a 
day and a half, kept the door locked for two days 
more, and lo ! they stood revealed — clean, shining, 
and freshly coated with a smooth brown-gray tint, 
which suited admirably the red-checked and gray- 
and-white mattings on the chamber floors. There 
was a saving, indeed ! Rosamund never questioned 
Aunt Kitty’s decisions again. 

‘^You’re a real witch. Aunty,” she declared. 
“ Everything you say turns out just so.” 

Over the narrow parlor chimney-piece Mark 
fitted a broad pine shelf, which was covered with 
stuff like the table-cover and finished with a fringe. 
Below stood an old-fashioned “ Franklin ” stove, 
with brass knobs on top and brass andirons to hold 
wood. This was a waif from the home garret, to 
which it had long ago been relegated, in favor of a 
“ Morning Glory.” The dining-room was equipped 
with a substantial base-burning stove, whose pipes 
did duty in warming the rooms above, — a necessity 
in the cold climate of Chesuck ; but Rosamund 


THE LITTLE RED, 


3 


wished for one place where she could “see the 
fire,” and her aunt supported her in the wish. 

In front of the “Franklin ” lay a gay Bombay rug, 
procured from the saving on the bedroom sets. 

“ One thing must balance another,” Aunt Hitty de- 
clared. The windows were curtained in burlaps, 
gold-brown and deep claret-red. They were long, 
straight curtains, swung on rings, so that they could 
be pushed clear back from the window and obstruct 
no sunshine, except when sunshine was undesirable. * 
The rod from which they hung was one of Aunt 
Kitty’s clever inspirations, being of bamboo, clouded 
in brown and yellow like tortoise-shell, — a fishing- 
rod, in fact, cut into lengths ; price fourteen cents 
a window ! Below, over each sill, was nailed a pine 
shelf, colored with the useful walnut stain which had 
already done duty on the floors. Two exactly simi- 
lar shelves beneath served to hold books (of which 
Mark possessed a good many), and a shallow case 
of shelves upon the wall (I ought to blush, perhaps, 
when I confess that it was procured from a “ Dollar 
Store ”) held more books : and on top a tall vase of 
amber-tinted leaves and ferns, which showed to 
beautiful effect against the pale-red wall. 


312 


THE LITTLE RED, 


The small sink-room at the back of the house 
had from the beginning been adopted by Aunt Hitty 
as a sort of private atelier. There she kept her paste 
and paint-pots ; her bottles of oil, varnish, stain, and 
glue ; her brads, tin- tacks, and hammer, not to 
mention certain mysterious wooden bowls and wire 
baskets ; and here in odd moments she gradually col- 
lected a heap of woodland treasures, — ferns, mosses, 
lichened boughs, and baskets full of fresh-smelling 
• loam. Here, with the door carefully locked, she 
dealt and planted ; and the result appeared on the 
last working- day, when, after each bed was daintily 
covered with its white quilt and ruffled pillows, each 
table and bureau-top with its fringed napkin ; when 
the towels were laid ready for use on their frames, 
and the wood and kindling on the brass andirons ; 
when even the blue and scarlet pincushions in either 
bedroom bristled with shining pins, and no last 
touch remained to be given. Aunt Hitty unlocked 
the atelier^ and disclosed its guarded treasures. 

First she produced a long and narrow box of 
roughly-barked wood, into whose interstices gray 
lichens and curiously colored fungi were quaintly 
inserted. This exactly filled one of the window 


THE LITTLE RED. 


313 


shelves and was planted with geranium slips, seed- 
ling nasturtiums, and a sprinkling of mignonette and 
sweet alyssum ; tiny shoots now, but promising to 
be delightful by and by. Over this she hung a shal- 
low wooden bowl, brown-stained and set with mit- 
chella and partridge-berry vines, gay with scarlet fruit. 
A large earthenware circle on the other shelf was 
filled with cup-mosses, maiden-hair ferns, and the 
green and garnet amphorae of the pitcher plant. 
For each of the dining-room windows was a wire ox- 
muzzle, moss-lined and nodding with tiarella plants 
and brave little evergreen fernlets. One tall, feath- 
ery cluster of pale green fronds rose from a rustic 
pot on the big central table ; for which was also a 
flat plate full of emerald and umber-brown and snow- 
white mosses, flecked here and there by a glinting 
fire-moss. Next appeared newspapers full of pressed 
leaves and vines. Some of these were pinned on 
the wall, round various photographs and heliotypes, 
which were to have frames “ by and by,” and mean- 
while did charmingly with a twist of trailing fern or 
brown-red blackberry vine to mark their outlines. 
A flat wall-basket of straw, filled with sprays of yel- 
low beech and purple-black ash leaves, dried grasses, 


THE LITTLE RED. 


314 

cat-tail bulrushes, and red rose sprays, made a fine 
spot of color in one corner ; and a still finer ap- 
peared when Aunt Hitty, with daring hand, glued a 
ruby-tinted bunch of maple leaves in the very mid- 
dle of one of the window-panes. 

Talk of stained glass ! ” she said, with sublime 
contempt, from the chair on which she stood. Then, 
tying a bough, from which swung a pendent bird’s- 
nest, to one side of the book-shelf, and sticking 
above it a leafy spray, which seemed at once to 
have grown there always, she faced round upon her 
• niece, and demanded : — 

“ There, Rosamund, what do you say to the 
woods now? Did I exaggerate? ” 

‘‘Aunty, it is wonderful. I never saw anything 
so pretty in my life. The whole house is just like 
a story to me.” The blue eyes were full of happy 
tears. 

“ My dear, it is a story in several chapters,” said 
her aunt, stroking the golden head. “ You’ll find 
the others just as interesting as this. Now, before 
we go, we must make up our last accounts.” 

For they had kept exact accounts, these wise 
workers ; and, what is more, their totals figured 


THE LITTLE RED. 3 15 

up to a penny, with no feminine resort to ‘‘sun- 
dries.” 

So Rosamund fetched her book. Aunt Hitty 
ciphered and verified, and then announced, trium- 
phantly : — 

“ Nowy Rosy, listen. Here we are. Including 
the refrigerator, which isn’t yet paid for, we have 
spent exactly seven hundred and forty-three dollars 
and sixty-seven cents. Your house is furnished and 
perfectly comfortable in every way, as I think ; 
and you have over fifty dollars left. I call that 
doing very well indeed. We couldn’t have man- 
aged it, though, without the auction to help us 
out. What will you do with the rest of your 
money? ” 

“There’s something I would like to do very 
much, if you think I might,” answered Rosamund, 
with a little shy tremble in her voice. “The 
money really is mine; isn’t it? Do you think I 
could buy that nice chair we saw, which tipped 
back, you know, and has a foot-stool, for Lu cilia 
Parkes ? I was wishing she had it the other day ; 
but I knew she could never afford thirty-five dollars 
for a chair. It seems to me I should enjoy my dear 


THE LITTLE RED. 


316 

little house even more if Lucilla had that. Do you 
think I might, Aunty?” 

Yes, I do think you might,” said Aunt Hitty. 
“ You’ve earned the right to be generous by being 
prudent. Get it by all means. It’ll make Lucilla 
comfortable for the rest of her life ; and you’ll be 
happier for knowing that she’s comfortable.” She 
was silent a moment; then added, with a sort of 
chuckle : I don’t see but you’ve mixed all the 
advice you had. Rosy, and made a kind of happy 
whole out of it. Your mother wanted you to have 
a ‘ best ’ room, and this is one of the best little 
rooms I ever saw ; Fanny, she wanted it to be gay, 
and Miss Danbury, she recommended tints and 
values, and you’ve got ’em and you are gay ; and 
as for Mrs. Treddle and the treasury of the Lord, if 
Lucilla Parkes, with her lame back, is n’t one of his 
little missionary-boxes, I don’t know who is. How 
dark it is growing ! We really must go.” 

A single rose, Mark’s gift of the morning, stood 
in a wineglass on the table. Rosamund stopped and 
stroked one leaf with her finger. 

I shall leave it here,” she said. ‘‘ It will be 
pleasant to think that it is keeping house for us till 
we come.” 


THE LITTLE RED. 


317 


Only one day intervened before the marriage. 
By Rosamund’s request it had been arranged that 
her father and mother, with Mark’s people, the good 
old pastor, and three or four of her girl friends, 
should escort them up the hill, after the wedding- 
reception was ended, and help them to take posses- 
sion of “ The Little Red.” The wedding journey 
was to be deferred till spring, when Mark was to 
have a vacation. 

And father shall light our first fire,” Rosamund 
added. It will be something like ‘ The Hang- 
ing of the Crane.’ It was that made me think 
of it.” 

The pretty thought pleased everybody. The 2 2d 
dawned, the brightest of October days, and after the 
ceremony in the village church and the entertain- 
ment at home ; after all the black cake, bride’s-cake, 
election, pound, jelly, plum, and every other species 
and description of cakes appropriate to weddings 
had been eaten, and the guests had dispersed, each 
with a little satin-ribboned bundle containing more 
cake, the bride changed her wedding-gown for a 
pretty home costume of soft gray, with lace ruffles 
and rose-colored ribbons, and, at the head of a 


THE LITTLE RED. 


318 

small procession of friends, walked up the hill to 
her new home. Aunt Hitty had preceded them, 
so the windows were bright with lighted lamps ; but, 
as she dexterously slipped out of the back door and 
joined the in -coming guests, the house stood in fair 
orderliness, as void of human presence as was the 
home of The Three Bears on the entrance of Little 
Silverhair. So peaceful, home-like, and charming 
was its aspect, that a pause of silent surprise suc- 
ceeded the entrance of its guests ; then a buzz of 
admiration began. Everybody was pleased, as every- 
body always is pleased when individual taste finds 
successful expression. Even Mrs. Bunker, though 
she opened her eyes doubtfully over this item and 
that, was fain to confess that the whole was sensible, 
pretty, and comfortable. 

But it seems to me you got a great many more 
things than I allowed for,” she said to x\unt Hitty. 
‘‘Are you sure you haven’t overrun?” 

“ Not a penny.” 

“Well, I don’t see how you did it. All those 
plants, too? ” 

“All out of the woods.” 

“You don’t say so ! ” 


THE LITTLE RED. 319 

The little bride produced a box of matches. 
“Now papa must light the fire/’ she said. 

There was a sort of sweet solemnity in the mo- 
ment. Everybody drew near and watched in si- 
lence, as the blue flash leaped into yellow, and the 
broad sheets of flame rushed upward, sending light 
and sparkle to the furthest corner of the room. A 
hearthstone is the true altar of the house. Primi- 
tive nations recognize this truth. We, in our fur- 
ther civilization, deny or evade it ; but we feel it. 

“’Tis home-like,” owned Mrs. Hopkins, who, 
good woman, had years before shut up all her own 
fireplaces and put stoves in their place. “ It’s like 
old times to see a fire again. But you’ll find it a 
heap of trouble, Rosamund.” 

The guests must see everything, up-stairs and 
down, even to the neat kitchen, where Biddy Mc- 
Flynn, already in possession, was sitting by her bub- 
bling tea-kettle ; and the pantry, whose shelves were 
already laden with stores which Mark, with the 
exuberance of a new householder, had ordered in. 
Cream, fresh eggs, — all was ready for breakfast. A 
single touch on the valve, and the household wheels 
were ready to revolve. 


320 


THE LITTLE RED. 


Let us pray before we separate,” said the old 
pastor. 

The tender words of petition which invoked the 
Father’s blessing on the lives and the home just 
begun seemed to rest like a gentle fragrance on 
the air. Sweet and sober farewells followed the 
Amen.” Rosamund and Mark stood at the gate 
to watch their friends depart. The friendly night 
had closed in round “ The Little Red.” The stars 
twinkled out of that mysterious blue which is almost 
black. In the east the sharp, clear crescent of a new 
moon climbed the sky. A gust of wind reached 
them, laden with those balmy odors which linger 
in the frost-sweetened forests. 

Let us go in,” said Mark. Arm in arm they 
retraced their steps toward the open door. They 
entered. It closed upon them. 

And so into this vexed world, with its wrongs and 
cares and burdens, where all lights are too few and 
each fresh shining is a fresh encouragement, a new 
home was born. 


ON A BOUGH. 


A CHRISTMAS STORY. 


Dear Mr. Abicht, — We celebrate Christmas-eve 
this year, as all years, by lighting Christmas candles 
in Fatherland fashion. Will you not come and enjoy 
them with us ? We shall be a strictly family party ; 
but that is rather an inducement, I think, when one is 
so far from home as you are ; and besides, you know, 
Mr. Heddermann looks upon you and all his young 
countrymen rather as sons than strangers. 

I write in English, partly not to expose my poor 
German, and partly because Gertrude begs me to do 
so, that you may be sure to reply in the same language. 
She says she is proud" of her scholar, and desires me 
to tell you that the tree is to be lit at seven o’clock 
precisely^ and she hopes you will be punctual to the 
minute. 

Yours most sincerely, 

Lucy V. R. Heddermann. 


Tuesday. 


21 


322 


ON A BOUGH. 


Dear Madame, — It gives me much happiness to 
accept with pleasure, as Miss Gertrude teach me to 
do. The sight of the Christ tapers will be welcome 
to my German eyes so far from Germany. Make my 
assurances to Miss Gertrude that I shall be prompt, 
and my regrets that she may not find this English 
sans reproche. I beg also to be presented to your 
niece, and, kissing your hand, am always, dear ma- 
dame. 

Yours, Maximilian Abicht. 

Wednesday. 

Dear Mr. Abicht, — Mamma is so very busy to- 
day that she desires me to write in her name to thank 
you for that beautiful note, and to say that as my aunt. 
Miss Van Ripp, cannot come till the later train on 
Christmas -eve, we must put off lighting the tree till 
half-past eight. You will come then, won’t you ? We 
shall all be dreadfully disappointed if you don’t. Your 
English was splendid ! 

A tif wiedersehen., 

Gertrude Heddermann. 

In these three notes lie the key of the mystery. 
A plague on post-offices and drop-letter boxes ! If 
note number one had only miscarried, then note 
number two would never have been written, and 
there would have been no worse consequences than 
the failure of one guest at the Christmas celebra- 


ON A BOUGH. 


323 


tion ; while if note number three had arrived safely, 
instead of wandering off Heaven only knows why or 
where, Max Abicht wouldn’t have been left stand- 
ing, hat in hand, in the dining-room of the Hedder- 
manns’ English basement, wondering unspeakably 
at the manner of his reception. 

Unversed in American customs, he did not know 
whether or not this was the way in which guests 
were generally welcomed in a republic, — namely, by 
a servant who, with a loudly uttered Irish exclama- 
tion, shoved them into a pitch-dark room, clapped 
the door to, and, clattering down some mysterious 
stairs or other, appeared no more. If the custom, 
it certainly was an embarrassing one. If not, some- 
thing must be wrong, and he racked his brains 
to discover what this could be. Had he mistaken 
the day? No. Saturday, Monday, Tuesday ; it cer- 
tainly was Wednesday, certainly was Christmas-eve. 
What could it mean? 

It meant simply that the fair Gertrude, in her 
bower above, was too busy with a French novel and 
a hair-dresser to notice rings at the bell ; that Mr. 
Heddermann, belated by the payment of his holiday 
largesses, was not yet up from the office ; that Mrs. 


324 


ON A BOUGH. 


Heddermann, having dined early to leave the even- 
ing free, was now, while waiting the arrival of her 
sister, confabulating delightfully with a friend in the 
back parlor, all unconscious of our hero, the topic 
of her discourse being himself, his prospects, good 
looks, family, and his probable engagement to her 
daughter. The two ladies, with their coffee-cups 
and shining tray, made quite a comfortable little 
oasis in the big be-gilt room ; and just as Max be- 
low essayed a distracted fumble after means of exit, 
mamma above was saying : — 

‘‘We had half a hint on the matter before he 
came over, you know. Old Abicht, his guardian, 
desires the match, and so do all the family. A girl 
of my Gertrude’s expectations is not to be picked 
up every day j the young man has sense enough to 
see that ^ — not that he needs to marry money with 
his property. But then wealth naturally does seek 
wealth ; and when you come to put money and 
beauty and accomplishments all together, why — ” 
Mrs. Heddermann interrupted herself and took a sip 
of coffee. 

“ And is the matter all settled? ” asked the friend. 

“ Hem — well, not in so many words,” replied the 


ON A BOUGH, 


325 


mother, diplomatically ; but of course we all see 
how it is going. Gertrude is a difficult girl to please, 
— a very difficult girl; still, I think — ” And the 
sentence ended with a significant smile. 

Meantime Max Abicht, unconscious of the happy 
destiny thus lightly sketched out for him above 
stairs, was groping in a vague way about the gloomy 
apartment below. He thought it must be the 
dining-room, in which he had once partaken of a 
sumptuous repast; but the darkness confused his 
recollections. For the life of him he couldn’t re- 
member on which side the door ought to be. He 
poked and felt and stumbled, grazed now a chair, 
now a table, now something big, which seemed a 
sideboard ; but door-handle found he none. Then 
he dropped his hat, and, stooping for it, brought 
his head with resounding whack against some hard 
object. The blow bewildered him still further ; and 
at last, finding himself near a chair, he sat meekly 
down, put his recovered hat on his knee, and 
resolved to sit still till some one came with a 
lamp to relieve him of the awkwardness of the 
situation. 

Just then a door not far from him swayed slightly, 


326 


ON A BOUGH. 


as if moved by some sudden current of air, and re- 
vealed a streak of light.. Max started up and ad- 
vanced ; but as he laid his hand on the knob, voices 
became audible on the other side, and, half hesi- 
tating, he paused. It was not the door into the hall, 
but one which led into an inner pantry ; and there 
(he could just see her through the crack) sat pretty 
Annette Thayre, Mr. Heddermann’s sister’s child, 
in neat ruffled jacket, white apron, and rolled-up 
sleeves, polishing silver, which a maid-servant stand- 
ing near handed to her, wet and steaming, from a 
tub of hot water. 

Max had seen Annette before, and had been 
struck by the sweet and piquant character of her 
beauty, which blended rather curiously both the 
German and American styles. He had also admired 
the long fair braids which she wore over her shoul- 
ders, and which reminded him of the mddche?t of 
his own country, and had thought more than once 
that it would be pleasant if Annette would some- 
times join in the conversation, instead of sitting 
silently by and absorbing herself in her sewing. But 
there was handsome, full-blown Gertrude always on 
hand, prattling, coquetting, playing on the piano, and 


ON A BOUGH. 


327 


otherwise taking up attention ; so his half-formed 
wish to make better acquaintance with Miss Thayre 
came to nothing. Now, engaged in this homely 
domestic occupation, she looked to him prettier 
than ever. Watching the quiet little figure and the 
small, busy fingers. Max thought of his mother 
rubbing up teaspoons in like manner when he 
was a little boy. He thought of a dozen other old- 
fashioned and suggestive pictures, and a glow of 
homelike recollection suffused his heart. 

There was a new look in the usually bright face, 
which he now observed, — a certain vague, tender 
gravity softening its blooming lines; and being a 
sentimental young fellow at bottom, he set himself 
wondering what it meant. Why was this dainty 
little maiden doing servants’ work in her uncle’s 
house so late on a holiday eve ? And while thus, 
pondering and uncertain, he lingered for a moment, 
Annette spoke. 

There, that is done. Now I will go and dress,” 
she said, laying down the silver pitcher she had 
been rubbing, and beginning to untie her apron. 
But just then “ Annette ! ” sounded in loud, impe- 
rious tones down the speaking-tube. 


328 


ON A BOUGH, 


Yes, aunt.” 

I forgot the big tray and the chocolate-pot. 
Send Mary down to fetch them, and give them 
a good cleaning, will you ? They are shockingly 
dull.” 

‘‘Yes, aunt.” The voice was bright; but as 
Annette re- tied her apron she looked a little dis- 
appointed. 

“ I declare. Miss Annette,” said the maid, “you’ll 
be all tired out before the company comes.” 

“ Oh no, Mary,” with a smile. “ It won’t take 
long to do the other things, I guess. Only run 
and bring them as fast as you can, — that’s a good 
girl.” 

“ Annette ! ” rang another voice from the upper 
end of the tube. “ Annette, are you there ? ” 

“ Yes, Gertrude. What is it? ” 

“My overskirt is all mussed and doubled over 
in packing, and I want you to dry-flute the ruffles 
before you come up. Amalie will take it down and 
leave it in the hall when she goes. Do be as quick 
as you can, and don’t let Bridget touch it, or she’ll 
ruin the lace.” 

“ But, Gertrude,” called Annette up the tube, 


ON A BOUGH, 329 

I’m afraid I can’t do that and be ready to come 
down to the tree.” 

Never mind if you aren’t,” was the uncompro- 
mising answer. ‘‘ I’ve got to have it, any way. And 
it won’t signify if you should be a few minutes late ; 
you’ll have your things just the same.” 

^‘Well, there ! ” ejaculated the indignant Mary — 
‘‘ if that isn’t too bad ! You’ve been kept busy all 
day, miss, and now you ain’t a-going to have a min- 
ute left you to dress. And it’s Christmas-eve and 
all.” 

“ Never mind, Mary,” said Annette, in a weary, 
patient voice. ‘Christmas- eve isn’t much when 
one is not in one’s own home, and I never cared 
about it particularly since I came to New York. So 
it won’t really make any difference if I am late. And 
Miss Gertrude wants to look nice, for, you know, 
Mr. Abicht is coming.” 

‘‘ I only just wish / was a man, and had eyes ! 
I’d use ’em,” muttered the wrathful Mary, as she 
flounced away. Annette rested her head upon her 
hand. Max saw — he was sure he saw — a tear roll 
down her cheek. 

ZZ Good gracious ! what a horrible position this was. 


330 


ON A BOUGH. 


— eavesdropping, peeping, overhearing. And all 
quite against his will ! What should he do to get 
out of this frightful predicament, in which at any 
moment he was liable to be discovered? With a 
sort of desperate tiptoe rush he gained the other 
end of the room, and, oh joy ! his hand struck a 
door-knob. Noiselessly he turned it. It was the 
hall ; there was the lighted gas, the front-door — 
blessed avenue of escape ! With nervous yet quiet 
movement he opened, he shut. No burglar ever 
let himself out more gingerly. Once safely in 
the street, under the frosty moon, he breathed 
freely, and began to think over the scene he had 
witnessed. 

“The mother of mischief is no bigger than a 
midge’s egg,’’ says the proverb. We are inclined 
to think that the deity who presides over love-affairs 
may be of scarcely larger size. Certainly the time 
spent by Max Abicht perdu behind the pantry door 
could not have exceeded three minutes and a quarter ; 
but, short as it was, it decided his after-destiny, as 
you will see. 

Half an hour’s walking in the crisp, cold air 
calmed his excitement. Consulting the time, he 


ON A BOUGH, 


331 


found it eight o’clock. So returning on his path, 
he rang the second time at Mr. Hedderman’s door- 
bell. The same wild figure opened the door. It 
was, in fact, the cook’s cousin, a recently imported 
specimen, who being tolerated in the household as 
an occasional supernumerary, had taken advantage 
of the situation to sally forth for a ‘‘peep at the 
quality j ” and thus, unconsciously to herself, twice 
performed the part of a deus ex machina in the 
evening’s entertainment. 

This time, however, she did not indicate the 
dining-room ; but motioning Max upstairs, followed, 
and held open a parlor door for him to enter. Max 
advanced, the door closed behind him, and again 
he found himself at fault. It was the front parlor 
this time, dedicated to the special use and behoof 
of the Christmas tree. There it stood, green, stately, 
bedecked, r— its fascinating load of mysterious parcels 
and rows of unlighted tapers revealed by a dim 
flicker of gas overhead. Max had in his pocket 
some trifles provided for the occasion ; and though 
somewhat embarrassed at finding himself again where 
he was evidently not intended to be, the opportunity 
of disposing of these seemed too good to lose ; and 


332 


ON A BOUGH. 


drawing them out, he proceeded to quest about in 
search of proper places for their suspension. 

The tree was all ticketed with names in true Ger- 
man fashion. Max turned away his eyes discreetly 
when he met his own, and proceeded to attach a 
pretty casket of Sevres to the branch labelled ‘‘ Die 
Mutter ; ” next a dainty bonbonniere in pink enamel 
and silver went on to the plethoric bough which bore 
the inscription, “Trudchen;” and a something in 
paper, well tied up, on that intended for Mr. Hedder- 
mann. One more bonbonniere remained ; and he 
looked about him. Yes, there at the back of the 
tree was a small twig marked “ Annette.” It was a 
very small one, and held but one tiny parcel, though, 
by way of making the effect gay, a couple of gilt 
balls and a red apple were tied on either side. Max 
thought of the patient little worker downstairs, and 
his heart swelled. He hesitated, colored, hesitated 
again. Then determination shone in his face. 
Dropping the bonbonniere again into his pocket, he 
drew a ring from his finger, tore a leaf from a note- 
book, and, writing a few rapid lines beneath the gas, 
made a small package, and with dexterous fingers 
hung it on the neglected bough. A deep flush dyed 


ON A BOUGH. 


333 


his cheeks, and his eyes glittered strangely, as, clos- 
ing the parlor door behind him, he stood in the hall. 
Just then Mrs. Heddermann came sweeping down- 
stairs. 

“ Oh, my dear Mr. Abicht, how good you are to 
be so prompt ! ” she exclaimed, holding out her^ 
hand. ‘‘ What a cold, cold night it is ! Pray come 
in to the fire. Gertrude will be down in a moment. 
The tree will be lighted almost immediately now, — 
at half-past eight, as her note told you.” 

Max bowed and smiled. He began to compre- 
hend the how and why of the misunderstanding, but 
preserved discreet that silence which, we are told, 
“breaks no bones.” 

It was all like a dream to him. He saw the com- 
pany assembled. Gertrude rustled in, all crisp and 
beautiful, in azure silk and diaphanous muslin ; he 
was introduced to this person and that, connections 
of the Heddermann family ; he conversed and was 
conversed with, and played his part well and like 
a man. But all the time a vague sense of sleep- 
walking was over him, and his thoughts were hanging, 
with his mother’s ring, on that unseen bough in the 
next room. He looked so often at the door that 


334 


ON A BOUGH. 


Mrs. Heddermann observed and marvelled ; but the 
grand business of lighting commenced, and took off 
her attention. And just as the folding-doors rolled 
back, and the tree stood revealed, with all its many- 
colored tapers and glittering fruits, a gentle little 
figure, clad in simple white, stole in and joined the 
company, unobserved by all. 

Unobserved by all except one, that is. Amidst 
the chattering, laughing confusion, the exclamations 
of wonder, the “ How lovely’s,” and “ Oh, thank 
you’s ; ” amidst Mrs. Heddermann’s caressing words 
and Gertrude’s overdone raptures about her casket, 
still Max contrived to follow with his gaze that little 
figure. He saw the wistful, smiling face as she un- 
tied the parcel, the wondering eyes that read the 
note, the deep, deep rosy flush that came with the 
reading ! And no wonder, for these were the words, 
written by that audacious Max in German : — 

A youth passed near a violet, but he saw it not, till 
on the air its fragrance was borne to him. Then he 
perceived that it was the most modest and most beau- 
tiful of flowers, and he desired it for his own. And he 
said to the violet, “ O Violet, pardon that I knew you 
not before. I am late, but I love ; and loving late, I 


ON A BOUGH. 335 

shall love always.” And the violet said — What did 
the violet reply ? I dare not guess ! 

But perhaps a violet cannot speak so soon. I 
would not frighten its fragrance. But if the blossom 
I covet can feel in her heart one secret possibility of 
regard, if I need not utterly despair, should she place 
on her finger this ring which once my mother wore, I 
shall see the sign of hope when I kiss her hand, and, 
thanking God, I shall be happy. 

Max Abicht. 

Trembling, our hero watched with furtive looks 
the reading of this billet. He saw the sweet face 
of the reader quiver with a smile which was half a 
tear, saw the little hands fold up and hide the paper ; 
then the eyes were raised. His own met them, full 
of beseeching eagerness. And he saw no more, 
until, in the general hand-shaking which followed the 
distribution of the gifts, he found himself close to 
Annette, who was leaning against the table with 
downcast eyes. He held out his hand ; hers went 
timidly forth to meet it, and lo ! on one of those 
slender fingers shone — the ring ! 

And so Max Abicht won his prize. Not immedi- 
ately, or as a matter of course. There were some 
difficulties in the way. Gertrude pouted, and Mrs. 


336 ON A BOUGH. 

Heddermann did all that in her lay to hinder the 
wooing. But that must be faint heart indeed that 
cannot grapple with suck obstacles. Before another 
Christmas-day all was happily settled. Max took 
his bride home with him, and this year, in a fair 
German city, a stately tree will be dressed by the 
hands of Annette, or ‘‘ Violet,” as her husband calls 
her. She has forgiven his eavesdropping, and he 
declares an intention, daily growing stronger, of 
settling a pension on that unaccountable Irish 
worthy who, starting him on “ passionate pilgrimage ” 
about Mrs. Heddermann*s dining-room, secured 
his treasure of a wife and made him a happy man 
for life. 


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•— 

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A WEEK AWAY FROM TIME. 

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CATHEDRAL DAYS. 

^ 2E0ur 2rf)r0U56 S0ut{)ern (!BntjlantJ. 

By ANNA BOWMAN DODD. 

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AND OTHERS. 

By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 

Author of Some Women's Hearts," '' Random Rambles f In the 
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Z E P H. 

A POSTHUMOUS STORY. 

By HELEN JACKSON (H. II.). 

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her publisher, with a brief note, enclosing a .short outline of the chapters which 
remained unwritten. . . . The real lesson of the book lies in Zeph’s unconquer- 
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Pink and White Tyranny. 


By MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, 

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are none the less dangerous because they are called contemptible. The extrava- 
gance of the newly rich, who have never learned the use of mcney, and the failure 
of the substitutes by which people who live by sensation try to supply the place 
of honor and religion, have never been portrayed more precisely At the same 
time Mrs. Stowe does justice to that sex which is not enough remembered in the 
discussion of the wTongs of Woman. For she describes, as no cne else can de- 
scribe, the tyranny under which a loyal and chivalrous gentleman suffers most 
terribly. The pen, which more than any other quickened the public heart till the 
black slavery of centuries was broken, wUl render a service not less considerable, 
if it so wake the conscience of men and women that pink and white tyranny of 
women over men shall be impossible. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishersy 

Bosi ON. 


Messrs. Roberts Brothers Pubhcuiions 


SOME WOMEN’S HEARTS 

By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
i6mo. Cloth, ^1.25 ; Paper, 50 cents. 

“The title of the book which Mrs. Moulton now sends forth is r.a 
descriptive of a single story filling the whole volume, but is the ribboa 
which binds together in one volume eight stories of various length The 
title proves to be something more than an external Hgaturo It is the hint 
of a connection that is far deeper, and that groups these stories into each 
other’s company for the very good reason that they are really of kia 
They tell the heart-history of women who have had to accept in this life 
some large portion of temptation, adversity, and sorrow, and have been 
feithful and true, and have gained the victory. . . . Mrs. Moulton has the 
incommunicable tact of the story-teller. She sees with the certainty of 
instinct what belongs to a story and what does not ; has the resolution tc 
sacrifice whatever is incongruous ; adjusts the narrative in a sequence that 
arouses expectation from the start and holds it to the end. We find, also, 
in these novelettes, a quality which characterizes all her writings in this 
kind, — not merely artistic perfection in form, but artistic unity in substance. 
Each story of hers is complete, and each is single. A severe logical law 
controls each, — a law which makes these stories seem a growth, and not 
a manufacture. Each is as perfect in this unity as a Greek tragedy or a 
sonnet of Petrarch’s. There is no ‘moral’ appended to any; yet tht 
moral of every one is so interwoven with its texture, and so inevitable a 
part of it, as to make its impressiveness at times overwhelming.” — Chris- 
tian Union. 

“ The groundwork of these stories betrays a rare insight into the my»* 
tenes of human emotion.” — Ths N. Y, Tribunt. 

“Taken as a whole, there is hardly a better collection of short stories 
Dy an American writer in print.” — Tht Literary World. 

“ A bouquet of as graceful and fragrant stories as were ever bound up 
together.” — The Golden Age. 

Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, by the 
Publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 





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